"And the armies that remain'd suffered"
-Walt Whitman
When embittered young Confederate Jeremiah Kent
loses a final fierce battle, one of the heart,
he strikes out on a desperate trail. Moving
west, he encounters Michael Boyle, long-time friend
of the northern Kents. Their fateful meeting, and an
unexpected act of renunciation, will have lasting
implications for the Kent dynasty. ...
Meanwhile, in the North, opportunist Louis
Kent connives to expand his fortune in the
multi-million dollar "Erie War" while his
cousin, Gideon, driven by the cause of the
railroad workers, vows to destroy Louis's
dream-empire ... .
Jeremiah, moving toward a lone and deadly destiny
in the lawless West ... Michael, seeking peace
on a new frontier ... Louis, embroiled in
one of the epoch's most disreputable money wars ...
Gideon, bent on conquering injustice. Children of a
blazing new era in American history, the Kents
wage their own monumental battles. In this
explosive epic tale they are THE WARRIORS!
The American Bicentennial Series
With all the color and sweep of American history
itself, THE WARRIORS continues The American
Bicentennial Series-a mighty saga of heroism
and dedication, patriotism and valor, shining spirit and
abiding faith.
Here is the story of our nation-and an amazing family
living in the turbulent times that began the American
Experience.
This magnificent American Bicentennial
Series of novels is more than absorbing,
entertaining reading-it is a resounding affirmation of the
greatness of America.
THE WARRIORS-THE SIXTH VOLUME IN THE
AMERICAN BICENTENNIAL SERIES-IS NOW
AVAILABLE. WATCH FOR THE OTHER
VOLUMES IN THE SERIES; COMING NEXT,
VOLUME VII-THE LAWLESS.
JOHN JAKES
THE AMERICAN BICENTENNIAL SERIES
VOLUME VI
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A PYRAMID BOOK
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Copyright [*copygg'1977 by John Jakes and
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For my mother
Prologue at Chancellorsville The Fallen
Sword
Book One
In Destruction's Path
Chapter I Soldier Alonebleda
Chapter II "Sixty Thousand Strong"60
Chapter III The Slave72
Chapter IV Rosewood80
Chapter V The Women89
Chapter VI Shadow of the Enemy104
Chapter VII Warnings115
Chapter VIII With Serena128
Chapter IX Red Sky141
Chapter X The Prisoner149
Book Two
War Like A Thunderbolt
Chapter IE-NEMY at the Gate179
Chapter III-NVASION192
Chapter IVS-LAUGHTER 457
Chapter V8To Every Purpose Under
Chapter VI Serena s PlanHeaven" 468
Chapter VII Night of Ruin 232 bar Chapter
VIT-HE Coming of the Godless 480
Chapter VI Day of Death "244 Chapter
VIIT-HE Vow 495
Chapter VIII Let'em Up Easy- 261,
Chapter VIIIM-ERIDIAN 100 507
Chapter IXK-INGSTON 520 Book Three
Chapter XA Matter of Truth 534
The Fire Road Chapter XIA Matter of
Faith " 547 Chapter I Escape to the West

Chapter H The Railhead293
Book Five
Chapter m The Captain308
The Scarlet Woman
Chapter TV "A March as Glorious as
Sherman's" 315 ChapterffMeeting With a
Mountebank 555
Chapter V Rage 328 Chapter H caret The
Tame Dog 567
Chapter VI Jephtha's Decision 338
Chapter IIIT-HE Portrait 578
Chapter VII Dorn's Daughter 360
Chapter IVT-HE Man in the Burned Shawl

Chapter V The Bible and the Knife 372 Chapter
VT-HE Family 596
Chapter IX At Lance Point 389 Chapter
VIT-HE Accident 607
Chapter X Hunter's Blood 401 Chapter
VC-ALL to War 621
Chapter VIA-THAT the Universal 636
Book Four Chapter IX8I'M on Top,
Ain't I?" 648 f
Hell-On-Wheels Chapter XC-ASUALTY of
War 657 Chapter I The Cheyenne 425
Chapter Armed Camp 434Epilogue at
Kentland
Chapter in The Race 446The Lifted Sword
And I saw askant the armies, 1 saw as in
noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,
Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierc'd with
missiles I saw them ...
7 saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them
I saw the debris and debris of all the slain
soldiers
of the war,
But I saw they were not as was thought, They themselves were
fully at rest, they suffered not, The living
remain'd and suffer'd, the mother suffer'd, And the wife
and the child and the musing comrade
suffer'd,
And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.
backslash
1865:
Walt Whitman,
in the,
Sequel to Drum-Taps,
written in the summer
and published in the autumn
following Lincoln's death.
Prologue at Chancellorsville The fallen
Sword
MAJOR GIDEON KENT was worn out. Worn out
and plagued by a familiar edginess he only
permitted himself to call fear in the silence of his mind.
The feeling always came on him during a battle.
About six o'clock that afternoon, he'd witnessed more than the
beginning of a battle. He'd seen the start of a
slaughter. Thousands upon thousands of his Confederate
comrades had gone charging out of the second-growth
timber called the Wilderness, bugles
blaring, bayonets shining.
Noisy blizzards of wild turkeys fled before the
howling men and their streaming battle flags. The
surprise attack had caught the Dutchmen-the
German regiments in Von Gilsa's
brigade-taking then* evening meal in Dowdall's
Clearing, most of then* arms stacked.
The Germans were manning the end of General Howard's
exposed flank. The Southerners tore into them.
Stabbing. Screaming. Blowing heads and limbs away
at point-blank range. On horseback, the
commander of the n Corps, Army of Northern
Virginia, had closely followed his charging lines,
his eyes blazing with an almost religious light. Now
and then the commander's hands rose to the thickening smoke in
the gold sky as though thanking his God for the carnage.
The general's outrageously risky attack had
succeeded. That much had been evident while Gideon
observed the first few minutes of the engagement. Then
he
was summoned away. His own commander, the restless
Beauty Stuart, saw that the terrain and the element of
surprise made cavalry not only unnecessary but
useless. So he requested permission to take a
regiment and a battery up to Ely's Ford on
the Rapidan River, where some worthwhile damage
might be done to a Union wagon park. Gideon,
assigned to General Stuart's staff, had gone
along.
Around eight o'clock Stuart had sent him back
to deliver a report to the general commanding II
Corps. Some Union horses had been
discovered-part of Stoneman's elusive force.
Stuart's message said he was preparing to attack,
though he stood ready to swing about if the commander of
II Corps needed him.
That the commander needed no one had become clear
to Gideon as he'd maneuvered his way south again through
almost impenetrable woodland to reach the
Fredericksburg Turnpike, where he was now
riding, armed with saber and revolver.
The surprise attack had rolled the enemy back
for a good two or three miles. Gideon could
dimly see the evidence: hundreds and hundreds of
blue-uniformed dead sprawled in the lowering dark.
To the east, the battle was still raging. Artillery had
joined the combat, and shot and shell had ignited stands
of timber along the fringes of the Wilderness.
By now the sun had set-it was Saturday, the second
day of May, 1863-and Gideon was moving
toward the center of the fighting. He had begun to wonder
if he'd been given the right directions by some
officers he'd met a ways back. Was II
Corps" commander really somewhere ahead? Impossible
to tell on this increasingly black road flanked
by stunted trees and thick underbrush.
His little stallion, Sport, had trouble keeping his
footing on the rock-studded highway. The wiry
long-tailed Canadian horse-Canucks, the
Yank cavalrymen called
them-had fallen into Gideon's hands after
Fredericks-burg. It was a short-legged shaggy
prize, coveted and cared for almost as attentively as
Gideon looked after himself.
But the damp, hard winter at Camp No-Camp-the
name was another of Jeb Stuart's whimsies-had
taken its toll. A week ago, despite
Gideon's best efforts to keep the captured
horse on firm, dry footing whenever possible,
he'd discovered the telltale signs of greased
heel. Sport's front hoofs had suffered too
much mud. They were rotting.
Still, the animal was game, moving steadily if not
rapidly through the tunnel of trees. Somewhere not far
ahead lay that white-columned farmer's
manse at the crossroads dignified with the name
Chancellorsville.
The road had grown dark as the devil. But above,
there was an eerie light compounded of the glow of the rising
full moon, the pulsing glare of the Federal cannon
to the east, and the sullen red of burning woodlands around
the horizon.
Gideon speculated about whether the fighting might go
on throughout the night Perhaps not. For some reason unknown
to him-but evidently clear to the generals comthe Yanks
commanded by Fighting Joe Hooker had failed to commit
their admittedly superior numbers to the battle.
Old Marse Robert's mad double gamble seemed
to be on the point of succeeding.
Gideon started. On his left-to the north, where
smoke drifted through the gargoyle tangle of tree
trunks-he thought he heard infantrymen moving.
He reined Sport to a walk. Whose troops were
those?
He immediately decided he'd go only another quarter
mile or so in his search for the leader of n Corps.
The lines were obviously still shifting. And he couldn't
be positive the information given him earlier was
correct- that the general and a small party of
officers, couriers, and Signal Corps
sergeants had ridden east on this
same turnpike to scout ahead of the re-forming lines.
If he didn't soon locate the man his father had
known in Lexington before the war, he'd turn about and
seek better guidance. Beauty Stuart didn't like
officers on his staff to be tardy delivering
reports on the cavalry's position.
He started and gasped as an artillery barrage
exploded a half mile to his right. He heard the
crash of falling branches. That patch of sky was now
something out of an artist's conception of hell. It
flickered and shifted through every shade of red. It seemed
the whole Virginia countryside below the
Rappahannock was afire.
Again he heard screams-distant but unnerving. In the
dark to his right, beyond the road's south shoulder, he
sensed more men moving.
were they Yanks caught behind the forward sweep of the
Confederate ranks? Or were they friendly reinforcements
being brought up; responding to the general's favorite
command-"Press on! Press on!" The general
drove his men so hard and fast they were sometimes called
the foot cavalry.
Gideon didn't like not knowing who was out there. His hand
dropped to the butt of the Le Mat revolver
tucked in his sash as he nudged Sport forward with his
knees. He began to be quite concerned that the general
might have advanced well beyond the point of safety.
All day an unconfirmed story had circulated
among Stuart's staff members. The story ran that
the commander of II Corps had risen after a bad
sleep and sipped some cold coffee before starting his men
on the audacious flank march that culminated in the
charge at Dowdall's Clearing. While the general
drank the coffee in the cold dawn air, his
scabbarded sword had been standing against a nearby
tree. And then, with no one touching it-no one even
near it-the sword had suddenly clattered to the ground.
The Fallen Swore
Gideon didn't count himself especially
superstitious. Yet, that story bothered him more than
he liked.
And there was reason for worry. He'd ridden quite a
way down the Fredericksburg Turnpike.
Why hadn't he found General Stonewall
Jackson?

He tried to push the worry out of his mind. In a
moment it became easy. Another shell arched
overhead. Gideon ducked as it blew up
trees about half a mile behind.
He wished to God he could see more clearly. Even
if there were men on the road ahead it would be almost
impossible to detect them from a distance. Pressing his
threadbare gray trousers against Sport to urge him
on, he strained to see through shadows and drifting
smoke now tinged red by the fire glare, now yellow
by the full moon.
To counter his weariness and fear, he again reminded himself
that the battle seemed to be going favorably.
By all logic it shouldn't have been going that way at
all.
Estimates said Hooker had brought down between
a-hundred and thirty and a hundred and fifty thousand
men-including Stoneman's cavalry, which-had
disappeared somewhere further south. The Union commander was
desperate to give Lincoln a decisive
victory after the debacles of McClellan, the
political general who'd dawdled and ultimately
failed on the Peninsula, and Burnside, of the
formidable side whiskers, who'd been routed at
Fredericksburg.
Fighting Joe's gigantic Union force was faced
by less than half as many Confederates. And few of
those were in good shape after a winter of privation
in the camps around Fredericksburg. Gideon
remembered all too well the pathetic sights of the
cold season:
Young boys, most of them barely fifteen, their
20The Warriors
uniforms in tatters, their mouths scurvy-rotted,
grubbing in the forests for wild onions-
Feet wrapped "in scraps of blanket leaving
scarlet tracks in the mud as men filed out of the
religious services held to keep their spirits up-
The round, alarmed eyes that first glimpsed the curious
bulb-like bags carrying men in big baskets and
bobbing on anchor ropes in the blowing mists north
of the river-
Gideon himself had been one of those startled and
worried watchers. He had never before laid eyes
on an observation balloon, but he'd heard about
them. The balloons were a disheartening sight. They were
more evidence of the superior resources and ingenuity of the
industrial North. Against it the South could only
muster dogged courage and the spirit epitomized by Jeb
Stuart's baritone voice bellowing in the Cavalry
as he led his brigades into a fire fight.
Finally Hooker's onslaught had come. He'd
hurled his columns over the
Rappahannock on pontoon bridges. General
Lee had then done the unthinkable- split the
outnumbered Army of Northern Virginia into even
smaller components. First he'd left ten thousand under
Early at Fredericksburg. Then he'd sent
twenty-six thousand with Jackson. That left
fourteen thousand Confederates to confront the Union
center, which consisted of three entire corps; something like
seventy thousand men.
Lee's division of his strength was deliberate.
By taking a supreme risk, he hoped for a
supreme triumph. Stuart's riders had spotted
a weakness in the Union plan. Hooker's right wing
straggled out southward, unprotected.
Only last night, Major Hotchkiss, an
engineer, and Reverend Lacy, both of whom knew the
countryside well, had located a route through the
tangled woods along which Jackson might march
down, around, and
behind the exposed Union right. And so, after his sword
had fallen, Stonewall had buckled it on, and with
Lee's approval, started at seven this very morning,
urging his twenty-six thousand men to "Press on!"
Toward the close of the day, the stern, curious
soldier who resembled some Old Testament
prophet, had ripped into Howard's encamped
Germans, the surprise march a complete success.
Gideon, a tall, strong-shouldered young man who
would be twenty next month, took a fierce pride
in that kind of daring. He found it in Jackson, in
Marse Robert, and in his immediate superior, General
Stuart, to whose staff he'd been assigned just after the
Fredericks-burg triumph. Again outnumbered at
Chancellorsville, the Southern commanders had had
to strike more boldly; gamble everything. Only a
general whose military skills approached genius
would have agreed to dividing inferior manpower not once
but twice, in the faint hope of turning what
appeared to be almost certain defeat into possible
victory. Only other generals of equally incredible
vision and audacity could have executed such a plan.
Moonlight through a break in the trees lit
Gideon's tawny hair for an instant. He'd
lost his campaign hat around six o'clock when a
Yank ball had blown it off. As he thought of
brave, imaginative Lee and the hard-driving
Jackson, he barely heard another rattle of
brush on his left.
Vaguely he realized the turnpike was dipping
downward. The soft chock of Sport's
rotting hoofs changed to a mushy sound. There was
swampy ground at the foot of the little hill. But
Gideon paid only marginal attention to the terrain.
He was happily bemused by the real possibility of a
victory. With a few more decisive routs of
Lincoln's procession of inept or hesitant
generals, the Confederacy might be able to negotiate
a peace. Then he could go back to Richmond.
Back to his wife and their infant daughter. It was
time. Of late he'd been
bothered by a feeling that his luck was playing out.
A year earlier, when he had been chosen as one of the
twelve hundred men to ride with Stuart to scout
McClellan's Peninsular army, he'd nearly
lost his life at Tunstall's Station. He'd been
leading a detachment burning the rolling stock on the
York River Railroad. Some of his men had
started firing revolvers to celebrate. Some
corporal's careless shot had blown Gideon's
beloved roan Will-O'-the-Wisp out from under him.
Stunned, he'd lain unnoticed while the freight
cars crumbled around him like fiery waterfalls,
setting his uniform afire. Somehow he'd found enough
strength to crawl to a ditch and roll frantically
until he'd put out the flames. He'd
spent the night in that ditch, half conscious and
hurting. At dawn he'd discovered that Stuart's
horsemen had all ridden on and the district was swarming
with Yanks.
He'd crawled out of the ditch, limped into some
trees, and hidden out all day, delirious with pain.
After dark he'd managed to rouse himself and move on,
finally blundering into the dooryard of a small tobacco
farm. The farmer had put him to bed, and the farmer's
wife had dressed the worst of his burns with
poultices. The family tended him for over five
weeks. At last the itching tissue had sloughed off
his arms and chest, leaving only faint scars.
Then Gideon had disguised himself in country clothing
and slipped back into Richmond to find his wife-who
had feared him lost forever.
That sort of brush with death-his first had come at
Manassas in '61-had relieved him of all
conviction that this war was glorious. Stuart still fought with
zest, and Gideon still joined the cavalry's singing as
they rode. But his emulation of his commander's spirit was
forced. He now found the war a necessary but filthy
business. He wanted it over; settled with as much
advantage to the South as could be gained.
Perhaps that was why he felt so strangely
euphoric just now. If a victory could be wrenched
out of the night's confusion it might lead at long last
to the European recognition Jeff Davis sought
for the government. It might lead also to a negotiated
peace, with the South once again prospering as a
separate nation on the American continent. But most
importantly, it might lead him home to Margaret
and little Eleanor.
Gideon's head jerked up. Musketry rattled
ahead. He reined Sport to a dead stop. The
fire-reddened moon hung above the trees but did
little to relieve the gloom on the turnpike.
The firing died away. Gideon scratched his
nose. The air stank of powder-and worse. Hoof
thrush wasn't his mount's only affliction. Too
many hours of a saddle on Sport's back had
opened one of the familiar and nauseous sores that
plagued cavalry horses. Gideon could smell
the fetid ooze beneath him; the sore ran constantly.
It pained him to think he was only worsening it by riding
his spunky mount so hard.
But he only had one horse. And he also had a very
important dispatch in the pouch thrust into his
frayed, duty sash.
Now that the muskets were silent, he could hear
a party of horsemen approaching. He quickly swung
the stallion to the north side of the road. The moon
glinted cold and hard in Gideon's blue eyes as
he scanned the turnpike.
The small arms fire from the direction of
Chancellorsville started again, then gradually died
away beneath the rhythmic plopping of hoofs. The
horses were coming up the slight incline from the low
place.
Next he heard voices. Did they belong
to Mends, or to enemies?
in
Gideon drew his Le Mat. He thought briefly
of heading Sport into the brush beyond the flinty shoulder.
But then he heard more sounds of movement and decided
against it.
Dry-mouthed he waited. Should he hail?
No, better wait and see whether the broken
moonlight revealed gray uniforms-or blue ones.
A horseman materialized, followed by several
others. The leading rider, thin to the point of
emaciation, turned his head at the sound of another
shell bursting south of the road. Gideon saw the
rider was wearing gray. The man had a straggling
beard, eyes that glittered like polished
stones, and an unmistakable profile.
Relieved, Gideon bolstered the revolver.
He'd found Jackson.
He touched Sport gently with his spurs. The
stallion started forward. Behind the general, Gideon
thought he saw six or eight mounted men in a double
column. There could have been several more; it was
impossible to be sure in the bad light. He headed
the stallion back across the turnpike, moving toward
the general at an angle.
As he opened his mouth to hail, someone hidden in the
woods to Jackson's left let out a shout. From the
same spot a horizontal line of flame
flashed. Rifled muskets roared, volleying at the
road.
IV
The general's horse reared. Gideon crouched over
Sport's mane just as a ball whizzed past his ear.
To Jackson's rear, men yelled out as he fought
to control his alarmed mount.
"Who's there?"
"Damn Yanks!"
"No, those have to be our men, Morrison.**
"No firing! Cease firing!"
In answer to the last cry from the road, the
unseen riflemen volleyed again.
Sport shied, neighing frantically. Over the roar
of the guns, Gideon heard a fierce, familiar
wail from the dark trees-
The Rebel yell.
The men in the woods weren't the enemy. Perhaps they were
from A. P. Hill's division. The officers
Gideon had met earlier had told him the division
was supposed to be advancing somewhere in this area. With
visibility so poor, Jackson and his party had
been foolish to push out so far ahead of the Confederate
lines.
Gideon kicked Sport forward, realizing from the
rising clamor of voices that soldiers were crashing
through the trees on his side of the road as well.
He'd evidently escaped an attack because he was
a single rider, proceeding in relative quiet.
The voices on the turnpike grew louder, creating
confusion as horses screamed and reared:
"Who are you men out there?"
"Hold your fire! You're firing at your own
officers!"
"Damned lie!" a Southern voice howled from the
blackness. "It's the Yank cavalry we was warned
about, boys. Pour it to them!"
"General!" Gideon shouted, riding toward
Jackson, who in turn was spurring his horse
toward the side of the road Gideon had just left.
Gideon let go of the reins in a desperate
attempt to reach for Jackson's shoulders and drag
him out of the saddle. He touched the fabric of
Jackson's uniform. Then his hands were pulled away
as Sport's right foreleg went into a hole.
The stallion careened sideways, almost fell.
Gideon tumbled from the saddle, landing hard as a new
volley
boomed from the thickets toward which Jackson was
riding.
Sport clambered up, apparently unhurt. On
hands and knees Gideon blinked and gasped for
breath. He saw Jackson's tall figure
stiffen, heard him cry out.
Jackson's right hand flew upward as though jerked
by an invisible rope. Then his left arm flailed out.
Gideon scrambled to his feet, realizing from the
way the general was swaying that he'd been hit. And not
just once.
Another howl of pain from the tangle of men and
horses told him someone else had taken a ball.
"Boswell's shot!" a man cried, just as
another volley roared from the road's north side.
The turnpike was bedlam. Wounded men slid from their
saddles. Terrified horses bolted.
Gideon staggered toward Jackson. The general was
still in the saddle. With both arms dangling at his
sides, Jackson had managed to turn his
horse's head away from the direction of the last
volley. Gideon still hoped to reach the commander and
pull him down before the concealed soldiers fired again.
A riderless horse crashed into him from behind, spilling
Gideon on his face. A rock raked his cheek.
He yelped as a hoof grazed his temple. Instinct
made him cover his head with both forearms.
Just as he did, he had a distorted view of the
bearded general being carried forward by his plunging
mount. A low-hanging branch bashed Jackson's
forehead, knocking him to the ground.
Still more shouting:
"Sergeant Cunliffe?"
"He's down too. Dead, I think."
From somewhere in the trees, a strident voice:
"Who's there? Who are you?"
An officer bent low and running toward the fallen
general screamed, "Stonewall Jackson's staff,
you goddamn fools!"
Gideon heard Jackson's name shouted out in the
dark on both sides of the road. Then he heard
cursing; accusations. Finally a voice identified the
unseen marksmen as part of the Thirty-third North
Carolina- General Hill's division.
On his feet again, Gideon lurched toward the
half-dozen shadowy figures clustering around the
fallen commander. A sudden memory gave him a
sick feeling:
The sword fell.
No one touched it.
A hand seized his shoulder. Whirled him. A
revolver gouged his chin:
"Who the hell are-?"
"Major Kent, General Stuart's staff," he
panted. Shock became rage. He slammed a
fist against the revolver muzzle and knocked it
aside without thinking that a jerk of the soldier's finger
could have blown his head off. "I've dispatches from-was
The man paid no attention; spun back toward the
general.
"How is he?"
"A ball through his right palm."
"He took another in the left arm. No, looks
like two."
"Don't move him!"
The voices sounded childish in their hysteria. In the
woods on both sides of the turnpike, men began
to hurry toward the road, heedless of the noise. An
officer in gray confronted one of the first infantrymen
to emerge from the trees. With a slash of his revolver
muzzle, the office laid the soldier's cheek
open. Moonlight shone on running blood as the
rifleman reeled back.. The officer brandished his
revolver at the other ragged figures beginning
to creep into sight:
"Fucking careless butchers! You shot Stonewall!"
Somewhere a boyish voice repeated the name. Someone
else began crying.
How many Confederates had been hit in those
volleys? Gideon had no idea. He counted
three sprawled bodies on the turnpike-perhaps a
fourth part way down the slope of the little hill. A
party of riders clattered up from the west, was
challenged, then told the news. The new arrivals
joined the men already kneeling around Jackson. One
bearded fellow with a heavily braided sleeve thrust
his way through the group. With a start, Gideon
recognized A. P. Hill, three staff
officers right behind him.
The stunned Hill dropped to his knees, gently
lifted, and cradled Jackson's head in his arms.
One of Jackson's aides pulled a knife and
began to slit the general's left sleeve from shoulder
to cuff. Blood leaked out of both of the general's
gauntlets.
Like most of the rest, Gideon stood staring,
overwhelmed by the tragic accident. He caught an
occasional glimpse of Jackson's stern face.
The eyes were open; shining in the moonlight. The
branch that had struck the general's forehead had opened
a cut. Trickles of blood ran in his
eyebrows.
Beyond the southern shoulder of the turnpike a
tumultuous shouting had started. Men relayed word of the
shooting. Even further out, Gideon caught the sound
of horsemen cantering. More Confederates moving up?
Or the enemy cavalry for which Jackson and his party
had been mistaken?
A man who identified himself as Morrison, the
general's brother-in-law, crawled to Hill's
side.
"For God's sake, sir, let's get him into the
shelter of a tree."
General Hill raised an anguished
face. "Send a courier for the corps
surgeon."'*
No one moved.
"Do you hear me, fetch McGuire at once!"
"And an ambulance!" a second voice bawled.
"We've got to move him," Morrison insisted.
"Captain Wilbourn?"
"Here."
Another man pressed through the group around the fallen
general. Laboriously, Wilbourn and Morrison
lifted Jackson and dragged him toward the shoulder,
ignoring the protests of several others about
possibly worsening the injuries. In the forest the
shouting and the drum of hoofs intensified.
Gideon wrenched his head around and called, "They're
making so damn much noise, the Yank outposts will
hear!"
No one heard him. Everyone was shouting at once.
Wilbourn and Morrison seemed the only men
sufficiently self-possessed to do what had to be
done; the others kept yelling warnings, orders,
questions.
Someone ran up to report that at least two men were
dead for certain. A courier snagged the reins of a
horse -Sport, Gideon saw with
consternation-mounted, and galloped off before he could
protest.
He turned back, tense and still shaken. Wilbourn
propped Jackson against a roadside tree,
gently pulled off the blood-soaked gauntlets,
then carefully unfastened the general's coat.
Jackson was still conscious. He groaned when
Wilbourn found it difficult to free his right arm from
the sleeve.
"Kerchief!" Wilbourn demanded.
A. P. Hill produced one. Wilbourn
knotted it around Jackson's upper left arm, then
asked for another. He used it to tie a crude
sling. Gideon thought he saw bone protruding through
the mangled flesh of the general's arm.
Breathing hard, Wilbourn leaned back on his
haunches.
"General? We must see to your right hand."
Jackson's lids fluttered. His voice-so often
stern- was a mild whisper:
"No. A mere trifle-was
General Hill stamped a boot down, hard.
"It's too dangerous to wait for an ambulance here.
Rig a litter. Use my overcoat.
Branches."
Trying to banish the persistent image of the fallen
sword, Gideon darted toward the brush on the
north side of the road. A private, a
starved-looking boy whose ragged gray uniform was powder
stained, leaned on his rifled musket, staring at the
wounded man. In the smoky moonlight the boy saw
Gideon's enraged face. He seemed compelled
to plead with him:
"Don't blame us, Major. Jesus, please
don't blame us. We heard the Yankee horse
was moving this way. We thought it was them-was
"You didn't think at all!" Gideon cried,
raising a fist. The boy cringed away. It was all
Gideon could do to keep from hitting him.
Finally, muttering a disgusted obscenity, he shoved
past the boy, dragged out his saber, and began cutting
a low branch. More of the damn fool North
Carolina troops were drifting out of the woods. They
stood like silent, shabby wraiths, gazing at
Jackson. Gideon hacked at the branch with
savage strokes, as though it " were a human
adversary.
When the branch dropped, he started to chop off a
second one. He grew conscious of a faint
whistling, coming from the east and growing louder. He
glanced up, his palms cold all at once.
Whether it was coincidence or the result of all the
noise in the wood, the Federal gunners had chosen
that moment to open a new bombardment.
He flung himself forward against the trunk as the
Tarheel soldiers scattered. The shot burst at
treetop level, almost directly above him. The
shock wave slammed his cheek against the bark.
Bits of metal and wood rained down. None
struck hard enough to hurt him. But the explosion and
fall of debris touched something raw in him-something
abraded by the months of separation from his wife; by the
wretched conditions of the winter camp where the brave
songs had begun to sound hollow and infantile. He
was suddenly gripped by a paralyzing panic.
He broke it with an enraged yell. He snatched
up the first branch, yanked the second off the trunk
by sheer force, jammed his saber under his arm, and stumbled
back toward Jackson.
A shell exploded close by. The road lit up
momentarily. Crouched over with the branches in his hands
and the saber jutting from his armpit, Gideon dodged a
shower of burning twigs while his mind reproduced the
dreadful image again:
The untouched sword scabbard slowly,
slowly toppling -
At First Manassas, Jackson had stood like that
stone wall and earned his famous nickname. He was more
than a master tactician. He had become a
legend to thousands of Confederate soldiers who'd never
even seen him; a name in newspapers that gave hope
to those at home when hope seemed futile. He was
the supreme example of the South's one matchless
weapon-raw courage in the face of superior
numbers and industrial strength.
Gideon's panic became almost overwhelming. The
Confederacy couldn't afford to lose Stonewall
Jackson. General Lee couldn't afford to lose
him. The survivors on the road had to save him!
Even if they died doing it.
The Yank bombardment became almost continuous.
Shells were being lobbed in every few seconds.
Exploding
shot spattered the turnpike like metal rain.
Gideon reached the group of men around Jackson and
began to jab the two branches into the sleeves of
Hill's gray overcoat. He worked with desperate
haste, driven by the conviction that Jackson was the
only man who could execute Lee's most daring
strategies and win victories that
textbooks said were impossible.
"He's not that badly hurt," Morrison breathed.
Whether it was true or only a prayer, Gideon
didn't know. But he tended to believe Morrison
was right. The greatest danger to Jackson at the moment
was the shelling.
An eighth of a mile east, another charge blew a
huge pit in the turnpike, raising a cloud of
dirt that sifted down on the men a moment later.
Captain Wilbourn leaned over Jackson's head
to shield him from the falling earth. As the upper limbs
of a nearby tree caught fire, he jumped to his
feet:
"Get that litter up and carry it out of here!"
Gideon and three other men grabbed the cut limbs
with the coat stretched between. The men at the bottom end
had the hardest job-holding the branches and the skirt
of the coat to keep it taut. Jackson was lifted
onto the litter, then cautiously raised.
Gideon tried to walk steadily-ignoring the
detonations, the glaring lights; the flaming trees; the
hissing grapeshot. Through the woods on both sides
of the highway, bugles pealed, officers bellowed
orders, men crashed through the thickets. Occasionally a
piercing scream signaled the killing or
wounding of one of those men by artillery fire. Gideon
breathed hard, the dispatch from Stuart entirely
forgotten as he concentrated on one simple but
immensely important task:
Getting Jackson to the rear. Out of the shell zone.
Getting him to a place where he could be treated.
Saved.
He's only wounded in the forearm, Gideon thought.
 he doesn't bleed to death-if we can reach the
surgeon in time without all of us getting blown
up-he'll be all right.
He ducked his head as another shell burst. A
flaming limb just missed his left side, the heat
scorching for a moment. He tried not to think about how
desperately the Army of Northern Virginia
needed this peculiar, unkempt man who had once
taught at the Military Institute in Lexington,
where Gideon had been raised. He just kept
walking, lifting one foot carefully after the other,
trying not to jostle the litter.
Steadily, they bore Jackson westward. The
cannonading never stopped. One litter bearer went
down, hit by a piece of shot. A major from
Hill's staff reached out to catch the branch as the
wounded man let go.
But the major wasn't quick enough. The litter
tilted. Jackson rolled off. When he struck the
ground, he uttered no sound.
The general's brother-in-law, Morrison,
knelt beside him, tears in his eyes:
"Oh, Lord, General, I'm sorry." Smoke
drifted away. The moon appeared again, lighting the
bearded face. Jackson's tongue probed his
lips, as if he were thirsty. His eyes looked
bright, fierce.
"We'll be on our way again within a minute-was
Morrison began.
"Never mind," Jackson whispered. "Never mind
about me."
"Come on!" Morrison exclaimed. "Lift
him!" They carried the general for another eight or
ten minutes, until they reached the ambulance that had
been summoned. Once Jackson had been laid
inside and the vehicle turned around, Gideon
trotted along behind comx moved slowly to avoid sudden
jolts-and presently the ambulance and the men
accompanying it reached a hospital tent in a dark
field out of range of the Union artillery.
Without his horse-God only knew what the
messenger had done with Sport-Gideon had
little choice but to remain outside the tent for an hour.
And then another. Finally Dr. Black, the
surgeon, came out wiping his hands on a bloody
apron.
Lantern light shone on the faces of the dozen or so
men who'd been waiting for word. The surgeon glanced
from face to face while the cannon continued to rumble
beyond the burning trees on the eastern horizon.
"I have successfully amputated the general's left
arm," Dr. Black said. "The bone was beyond
repair. If there are no complications, he'll
soon be back to lead his men again."
Gideon shouted like a boy. So did the others.
Hats sailed into the air as the weary doctor
turned, gave a faint smile of satisfaction, and
stumbled back into the tent.
Gideon sank down on the ground, incredibly
tired. While a few of the men continued to whoop and
dance around him, he leaned his forehead on his knee and
thought:
At least I've helped do one thing in this war that 1
can be proud of.
After two years of fighting in which he had changed from a
cheerful, contentious young man eager to see battle
to a weary professional who now knew the
dreadful cost of the South's principles, it was good
to be able to single out even one such accomplishment. He
yawned. Closed his eyes. It was good. Though he
knew he should get up and hunt for Stuart, he
didn't. He was too tired. He sat upright in the
glow of the lantern outside the medical tent,
struggling to keep his eyes open.
It would soon be Sunday, he realized. Maybe it
was Sunday already.
Would Margaret be going to church in Richmond?
The Fallen Sword35
Must write her, he reminded himself. Write
to tell her how we saved old Stonewall-
Eight days later, before Gideon found the spare
moments to put his thoughts to paper, Thomas Jonathan
Jackson lay abed in a small house at
Guiney's Station-
Dying.
VI
-It was pneumonia, they say. Jackson was making
a good recovery. Then, quite abruptly, Wednesday
I believe it was, he began to sink.
I've been told it was a relatively peaceful
death, though the general suffered periods of delirium
near the end. His wife Mary Anna was
among those at the bedside. They sang a hymn he
requested.
According to what we've been "told, the general spoke
twice, once to issue an order for A. P.
Hill to "come up" with his infantry, the second
time to utter a most peculiar remark-"Let us
cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the
trees." Some claim the word was "pass," not
"cross." But no one knows what he meant.
I didn't realize he was so young; he had observed
his thirty-ninth birthday only in January.
I've considered trying to write my father in New
York where he is once again preaching. I wanted
to tell him Stonewall has died. But I am sure
no letter of mine would reach the North, and he will
doubtless read of the passing, since Jackson's
exploits were so widely discussed.
In Lexington, the general was a friend to my father when he
had no others. He will mourn the cruel accident,
I am sure, even though he believed his friend had
given his loyalty to the wrong side.
It is hard for me to express my feelings just now,
Margaret. We won a sound victory at
Chancellorsville-though at a high cost. I've
heard there were as many as 13,000 of our boys
killed, maimed, or lost.
We comwd have made the success an even better one
if Fighting Joe had not lost dishis taste for
fighting- something it appears he never had to begin with!-
and got away across the Rappahannock pontoons
before we could catch him. And the loss of Jackson
has robbed the victory of all sweetness.
Even General Stuart, with whose command I was reunited
before the fighting ended, seems in poor spirits. He is
being praised in some quarters, and dd in
others, as a result of his handling of Jackson's
infantry. He took command when A. P. Hill
fell wounded the same night Stonewall was shot.
You may say I place too much importance on
Jackson, but I do not believe so. It's the common
feeling that, between them, Lee and Jackson would one day
have pounded the Lincoln crowd into submission to our
point of view. Lee was like an anvil and
Jackson a hammer, and whenever the Federals were
caught between them, they were lost. Now Lee's hammer
is gone. He is reportedly grieved almost beyond
consolation, though outwardly maintaining a show of
courage. Men claim-rightly, I think-that when we
lost Jackson, we lost the irreplaceable.
I even sense a new attitude among those
on our side. I can't quite put it into the proper
words, but there is not much talk of winning now, only
of a long hard fight with a truce the most we can hope
for, and defeat being more likely. The feeling did not
seem present a few months ago, and certainly not
a year ago. I hope the mood will pass, but I
wonder. Something has changed.
In truth, I have changed too. I am ashamed
to put unmanly thoughts on paper, but I cannot help
them. I was never before afraid that we would lose, but
I am afraid now. I am even more afraid of
what will happen to us-you and Eleanor and myself-if the
worst comes to pass. The last time I saw father, he
quoted Scripture and stated that the Kent family
need not forever be harmed by the war. But what of we
three?
I never felt strongly that the nigras should remain
perpetually enslaved-the plain truth is, I never
thought much about their condition at all; a mistake, I
am beginning to believe.
But my doubts about certain aspects of the war do not
alter the fact that I have taken part in what the North
calls the rebellion. Will I or any other
soldier on this side be easily forgiven for that? I
doubt it. Of more importance is this question.
Even if I am forgiven, how will we make a life
for ourselves when peace comes again?
You know the many, many hours I have spent during the
winter studying the books you have sent, trying to teach
myself to put words down in a proper order, and with some
intelligence, because a good officer comespecially a
staff officer-must have that skill. But I am a grown
man, and I still lack a decent education. War is the
only trade I know.
You must forgive much of what I have written. I am
caught up in the sad spirit of these days, and should not
pass my gloom along to you. I love you with all
my heart and pray for your safety and that of our dear
child there in the capital which the enemy wants to destroy
so very much.
Will write again the moment I can. Let us hope
God and the circumstances of the war enable me to do so in a
more cheerful spirit.
Give the baby hugs and kisses for me.
Your husband, G.k.
Book One In Destruction's Path
Soldier Money
SLOWLY, SO HE WOULDN'T
make a sound, the kneeling Confederate corporal
stretched his right hand between the slats of the corn
crib on the small Georgia farm.
The interior was black. He couldn't see what he
was after, but he was determined to find food. His belly
hurt, though he didn't know whether it hurt from
hunger or from the onset of another attack of
dysentery.
Better get hold of something to tide you over, he
thought. All he'd had to drink for the past two days
had been creek water; his only nourishment a few
berries. If he starved he'd never reach
Jefferson County. And he had to reach it. That was why
he'd risked sneaking the quarter of a mile from a
clump of pine woods to the back of this crib on a
small farm in Washington County. While he'd
crossed the open ground, he'd kept the crib between
himself and the run-down house, which appeared to be
deserted. From the safety of the trees, he'd watched
house and crib for a quarter hour before venturing out.
He couldn't find any corn in the crib. He
pressed his right shoulder harder against the slats,
stretching and wiggling his fingers; groping. He was a
lean young man of eighteen. His face, which always tended
to a gauntness inherited from his father, looked even more
bony than usual. He had his mother's fair hair,
but accumulated dirt had given it a dingy
brown cast. Large dark
eyes and a straight well-formed nose were spoiled just
a bit by a mouth that took on an almost cruel thinness
when he was determined.
The Georgia twilight had a curious, cold
quality despite the huge red ball of the sun
dropping over a patch of woodland where leaves were
changing to yellow and vermillion. Or perhaps he
only thought the oncoming dusk seemed cold because he
was alone. It was Sunday, the twentieth of
November, 1864; the eve of winter.
Grunting softly, his hand searched to the right; to the
left.
Nothing.
He jammed his eye up next to an opening between two
higher slats but saw only darkness. Lord, was the
crib empty?
He looked disreputable, kneeling there. His
cadet-gray tunic, designed to cover his trousers
to a point halfway between hip and knee, was torn in
five places. From the two rows of seven
buttons, just four remained. His point-down
chevrons had come half unsewn, and the light blue
trim that edged the tunic and identified him as an
infantryman had almost raveled away.
Dust and weather had soiled the light blue collar and
cuffs as well as the matching sides and crown of his
kepi-style forage cap that hid the white streak in his
hair. A duck havelock hanging down from the
back of the cap to protect his neck from the weather had
turned from white to gray. A canvas shoulder sling
held his imported .577-caliber Enfield
rifled musket upright against his back.
Like any good soldier, he had strong personal
feelings about his weapon. It was his companion; his
means of survival. And he was good with it. That was a
surprising thing he'd discovered during his first weeks
of service. Perhaps it was his upbringing-his grandfather had
taught him how to shoot. But whatever the reason,
he'd quickly become a proficient marksman. He
was
fast at reloading, with an instinctive feel for the
intricacies of handling firearms-such things as wind
velocity and tricks of sun and shadow that could affect
accuracy. He'd been complimented more than once on
being a fine shot. The compliments helped develop a
conviction that, without a weapon, he was not complete. His
gun had become an extension of himself.
Straining to find something inside the crib, he failed
to hear the footsteps. The farmer must have
slipped out of the house in a stealthy way, somehow
sporting him on his passage across the field. His
first warning was a shadow that fell over the side of the
crib.
"Y'all get up from there, you damn thief."
He jerked his head around; saw the man. Paunchy;
gray-bearded. Old, weather-worn clothing.
Filthy toes showing at the tip of one worn-out
boot.
Thick-fingered hands clasped the handle of a pitchfork.
The tines caught the sundown light and glittered like
thin swords.
"I said get up!" the man yelled, lunging from the
corner of the crib.
The soldier reared back. The tines of the pitchfork
stabbed into the slat where his cheek had been pressed a
moment before.
The man yanked the pitchfork loose. The corporal
steadied himself, feet spread wide, hands held up
in front of him:
"Look, I only wanted a little food-was
The pitchfork flashed red. The corporal eyed the
points. Would they stab at him again, without any
warning? . The man's slurry voice showed his
fury:
"What corn I got belongs to me and the missus and
my two little girls. You ain't gonna touch it."
"All right," The corporal backed up a step.
"Just be careful with that fork. I still have a ways
to travel."
The man squinted at him. "Where you bound?"
"Home," the corporal said, resorting to an
evasion he'd used before. He was thankful he'd
ripped the Virginia regimental emblem from his cap,
in case the man could identify the insignia of state
units.
"Where's home?"
"What's it to you?" the corporal shot back,
resenting the man's hostility to someone in Confederate
gray.
The farmer came forward again, the fork held
horizontally, the tines a foot from the younger man's
belly.
"Goddamn it, boy, you answer!"
"That's a hell of a way to talk to a soldier from your
own army!" He tried a bluff; lowered his left
hand to touch the brown-spotted bandage knotted around his
thigh. "I got mustered out. I was hit."
A grumble of doubt: "That a fact. Listen, I
know they're sending boys back to service
shot up a lot worse 'n you. You ain't tellin"
me the truth."
The corporal was angry. This ignorant clod
couldn't begin to understand his concept of devotion to duty;
could never understand why he was traveling alone across
central Georgia; hiding out during the daylight
hours; stealing and getting shot up for trying to pilfer
a chicken to eat.
"You say you're goin' home-was
"That's right."
"What's your name?"
"Kent. Corporal Jeremiah Kent."
"Well, now, Corporal Jeremiah Kent, you just
tell me where your home's at."
"Mister, I don't mean you any harm. You wouldn't
miss an ear or two."
The pitchfork stabbed out, the tines indenting the fabric
of his tunic just above the belt:
"Boy, answer the question. Where's home?"
Alarmed, he risked a little of the truth:
"I'm headed for Jefferson County."
The farmer's face twisted in an ugly sneer. Very
softly, he said:
"Then you're tellin' me lies. You ain't no
Georgia boy, I know by the way you talk.
You come from someplace up north. Carolina, mebbe.
Virginny. But not Georgia. You run away?"
The tines poked deeper. Jeremiah felt one
pierce his tunic; prick his skin.
"You're a goddamn deserter."
Furious, Jeremiah didn't know how to answer the
accusation. In a way it was true, yet he'd
traveled for miles with no sense of dishonor.
Traveled with pride and purpose, in fact.
"I sent two sons to Mississippi and lost
both. Both! I ain't feedin' or shelterin' no
damn runaway coward!"
The last word exploded in a rush of breath. At the
same instant, the farmer's hands jerked back at his
right side. Then with full force he rammed the
pitchfork forward. Jeremiah jumped sideways. A
tine slashed another hole in his tunic. The points
hit a crib slat so hard they hummed.
Jeremiah's mouth looked thin and white as he laced
his fingers together. Color rushed into his cheeks.
While the farmer struggled to wrench the tines loose,
Jeremiah slammed the back of the farmer's neck,
using his interlocked hands like a hammerhead.
The farmer staggered. Jeremiah struck again,
ruthlessly hard. Time to quit fooling with this
old man.
The man dropped to his knees, his palms pressed
against the slats of the crib as he gasped for air. A
little of the harshness went out of Jeremiah's eyes as he
whirled and dashed toward the pines, hoping the farmer had
no firearm within quick reach.
Short of breath and dizzy-the sickness seemed to be
coming on again-he slowed at a point halfway across the
field and turned his head around.
Lord God! The damned lunatic was chasing him!
The raised pitchfork shimmered in the red light.
Despite his age, the man ran with powerful
strides.
Jeremiah bolted for the trees. How could you explain
anything to a father who'd seen two sons killed in a
war that was ending in failure? How could you make such a
man comprehend that you were out here alone because you believed,
above all else, in honoring promises and obeying
orders? Especially orders from someone who'd saved
your life?
Eyes slitted, head back, mouth gulping air,
he drove himself. Reached the sanctuary of the
sweet-smelling pines and kept going, brambles
slashing at his legs, needles on low branches
raking his cheeks.
Finally, deep in the woods, he leaned over to catch
his breath, near fainting from the aches in his chest and
midsection. Somewhere behind he heard the farmer thrashing
in the brush.
"Yellabelly! They gonna catch you! They
gonna hang you! You an' every other goddamn
deserter!"
The thrashing sounds diminished. Presently the woods
fell silent except for the shrieking of a jay.
He'd eluded the man. But he couldn't elude the
accusation. It enraged him.
He started on, mentally minimizing the failure of his
raid on the crib. He probably couldn't have
kept corn kernels in his stomach anyway. He was
undoubtedly getting sick all over again. He'd just
keep moving.
His fury toward the farmer abated slowly. A man
like that wouldn't understand what he was doing; no one could
understand except a dead Confederate officer, and two
women Jeremiah had never seen.
As he limped from the woods and angled toward a
dirt highway in the deepening darkness, his heartbeat
slowed. He climbed the shoulder of the road and turned
in the right direction after a backward glance to assure
himself the farmer hadn't taken to horseback
after him.
No, he hadn't. The road stretched silent,
winding into the black and scarlet autumn sunset.
He swallowed, concerned about being sick again.
Sickness would only delay him further. Was there
anyone left in the whole damn world who'd understand
what he was doing? What if those women called
obeying an order desertion? If they did, his
flight and all its perils would count for nothing.
Just like the war itself.

A mile or so down the road Jeremiah began
pondering a question he'd asked himself many times, without
finding an answer. What really had become of the war
he'd gone to fight? That brave, honorable war for the
St. Andrew's cross of the Confederacy and all it
represented?
He thought he knew part of the answer. The bravery
had been rendered worthless by military routs, and a
widespread sense of impending defeat. The honor
had been turned into a mockery by behavior he'd
witnessed among the men on his own side.
Gradually, the shock of his encounter with the farmer
passed. He honestly couldn't blame or hate the
man now that he'd escaped him. The
beautiful night soothed the anger and brought understanding.
A high-riding white moon blazed then darkened as
thin clouds sailed past. The color of the
countryside changed from moment to moment; silver to sable
to silver again. A breeze rustled the branches of a
plum orchard to his left, out there past a little
brook that ran beside the road. He heard the sound of
rabbits hopping in the orchard. Somewhere,
late-blooming wild roses fumed their sweetness
into the air.
His belly began to growl again. His intestines seemed
to be clutched by a strong hand, then released.
The sickness had left him helplessly weak for half
a dozen days at Lovejoy's Station where he'd
rested in early September, recovering from a light
wound. At Jonesboro a Yank ball had sliced
the flesh of his left upper arm. The ball would have
killed him if it hadn't been for Lieutenant
Colonel Rose.
Rose had been trying to rally the troops under his command
during the Jonesboro action. He'd seen the
Union sharpshooter take aim at Jeremiah, who
was kneeling and loading with frantic speed. Rose
had lunged and knocked Jeremiah over-again
demonstrating that he was the kind of man
Jeremiah wanted to be himself-
An honorable soldier.
Scarcely eight hours later, Rose lay beneath the
lantern of a field hospital, mortally wounded.
That night he revealed a side to his personality
Jeremiah had never seen before-deeply hidden
bitterness and pessimism. Pain destroyed his
pretense when he gave Jeremiah a letter to his
loved ones. Rose had written the letter a few days
earlier, using the only material available-brown
butcher's paper.
Jeremiah could still vividly recall how
Lieutenant Colonel Rose had looked in those
moments before his death. The field hospital lantern
lit the sweat in his beard like little jewels. He
grimaced; summoned strength as best he could;
whispered to his orderly:
"Take the letter home for me, Jeremiah. My
wife and daughter-they'll need you more than this pitiful
army needs you. My God, you know we're done for.
Have you counted-was
A violent, prolonged fit of coughing interrupted
him. Jeremiah stayed rigid, not wanting to turn and
see why a man on another of the plank tables was
shrieking. The rasp of a saw told him why.
"comcounted the numbers we're losing every day?
Some will go back where they came from, but some will turn
into scavengers."
Jeremiah had seen it already. Enlisted men disobeyed
their officers, slipped out of camp after an engagement
and prowled among the Union dead, stripping them of
personal effects, prying loose gold teeth,
even stealing uniform buttons.
"They'll be roaming all over Georgia soon.
I don't care what others tell you, war-war ruins
some men. It ruins land but worse, it-ruins people.
You've seen what's happening. Desertions.
Profiteering. Brutality to prisoners.
Andersonville-"
Another spasm of coughing. Rose went on, more
faintly:
"comAndersonville! Right here in Georgia-an
affront to God and everything that's decent. It's no
different on the other side. And now there's Sherman
to fret about. I fear for my wife's safety. Go
to her. Don't let anything stop you-or turn you
into what some men in this army have become. You're better
than that. Any man-was he grimaced. "comwd be
proud to call you his son. I would. I've never had
a son."
Jeremiah's eyes filled with tears, but he felt
no shame.
"I did you a service," Rose whispered. "So you
must do one for me. As soon as you can-promise?"
The sight of the officer's pain nearly broke his
heart. But he had to answer truthfully:
"Sir, I-I couldn't. That'd mean deserting."
Rose's eyes opened wider, resentful. He
clenched his teeth. Raised himself on one elbow:
"Then I-I order you to go. You understand, Corporal
Kent? I'm your commanding officer and I'm ordering
you."
Ordering him? That tangled the whole request so
fearfully, he didn't know how to deal with it. He
stood mute while Rose glared:
"You will carry out the order?"
less-than 4T"

'allyou will." It was no longer a question. "Promise
me." The harshness became pleading. "Please
promise
me-was
He whispered it:
"Promise, sir."
Rose fell back, his chest heaving as he
labored to breathe. Almost before Jeremiah realized it,
a surgeon was covering Rose's face. Then men
wrapped his corpse 'in a bloodied canvas and
carried it outside to dump it beside three dozen
others. Hardly aware of the throb of his bandaged arm,
Jeremiah wept.
The order he'd promised to carry out lingered in his
mind. He'd promised. There was no question of when
he'd leave; only of how. He had to get away
without being caught.
It took a while. The combination of his
none-too-serious wound and the-chronic intestinal
ailment of the army put him out of action for six days,
forcing him to stay at Lovejoy's Station while
General Hood moved most of the troops further
west, to Palmetto-hopefully out of Sherman's
range.
Eventually Jeremiah was ordered on to Palmetto
with a dozen other men who'd recovered from injuries.
He remained at Palmetto during most of
September, waiting for orders. He saw
Jefferson Davis from afar when the president
slipped in to confer with Hood over problems plaguing
the disintegrating command structure.
Jeremiah's promise to Rose became an
obsession. Quite often he was tempted to read the letter he
guarded so carefully. But he felt that would be a
dishonorable violation of Rose's confidence. Even
though the concept of an honorable war had become almost
a joke, he clung steadfastly to the belief that he
must continue to behave in an honorable way at all
times.
Yet watching desertion-ridden companies at
Palmetto
shrink to half a dozen men made it hard. So did
the loss of all the little amenities he'd taken for
granted when he was younger:
The way your hands felt clean after scrubbing with harsh
yellow soap. There was no longer any soap.
How your mouth tasted better in the morning after using
salted water and a toothbrush. He'd lost his
toothbrush through a hole in his tunic pocket. The
whole Confederacy was short of salt. He had
resorted to a twig and his own stale spit.
Food had grown progressively poorer and
scarcer. There was usually soup, if you could dignify
it with that name. Water thickened with some corn meal.
Occasionally he'd get potatoes, which he'd mash
up and cook with a precious bit of meat. He'd
learned to save the chunk of meat, wrap it in
a scrap of cloth and re-use it the next day.
He'd cooked one such chunk of pork over and over
until it was black and smelled like garbage.
It was no wonder the dysentery felled him again, this
time for nearly three weeks.
When he recovered, it was already mid-October. He
was glad he hadn't tried to get away yet. Some
of the deserters had been caught, brought back, and
sent to prison. But he was growing fretful;
impatient
I am ordering you-
Promise me-
"Promise, sir"
General Hood had taken the army and disappeared into the
northwest, hoping to cut Billy Sherman's
supply lines from Tennessee. Since Jeremiah"
unit was gone, he was ordered out with a contingent of
Georgia Militia to find and join Hood. He
was still physically weak. Couldn't keep up-or at
least had an excuse for pretending he couldn't One
dawn, the militiamen left him behind.
He was free.
He rested three days in a glade above
Atlanta, then
headed southeast to deliver the letter.
Technically, he supposed he was a deserter. But
not in his own mind.
He circled wide around besieged Atlanta and
crossed the shell-blackened, trench-scarred fields
with caution. With one expert shot he bagged a wild
turkey, then gutted and roasted it. He had no
salt to add as a preservative, but the meat would still
last him a while.
Careful as he was to avoid being stopped or questioned, he
was defenseless against one threat: the disease in his
system. He lost four more days in another patch of
forest, lying on the ground hour after hour, wracked
by fever, and bowel trouble. It was from those woods, a
week ago, that he'd seen more evidence of how ruthless
the conflict had become.
He'd seen a sky blackened by fire-shot smoke.
Heard thunderous reverberations from dynamite charges.
The South's transportation center and major rail
junction was being systematically destroyed by men who
didn't give a damn about fighting honorably,
only about winning their war to free the nigra and crush
the rebels. He remembered wondering, hatefully,
how many noncombatants had been blown up along
with the rolling stock and roundhouses in Atlanta.
Now, a good two miles from where he'd
encountered the farmer, he was forced to stop. Out of breath.
Lightheaded.
The darkness of the countryside oppressed him. The
moon was temporarily hidden. Perhaps it was the lonely
dark that made him think of his mother, Fan Lament.
She'd sent him off to this failing war with a curious and
contradictory set of admonitions:
She'd hated to see him go. Expressed grave
concern about his safety. Warned him to be as careful as
he could.
Yet she was proud of his enthusiasm. Didn't
refuse when he begged to enlist. And, at the last
moment,
urged him to fight well and-most
importantly-honorably.
He suspected that the fervency that had finally
overcome her fear had had something to do with his stepfather's
mysterious death in Richmond in 1861. It seemed
that Edward Lament, the actor, had tumbled down a
flight of stairs in the building where he and Fan had
been living. Jeremiah had been in Lexington at
the time, staying with Fan's father, Virgil
Tunworth. The boy had heard the account of
Lament's death from his grandfather.
When Fan returned to the little town in the
Shenandoah Valley after the funeral, Jeremiah
began to have a feeling the accidental fall wasn't the
whole story. Based on the somewhat nervous way
Fan answered his questions, he had decided there must have
been something disgraceful about Edward's death. Something
Fan was desperate to counterbalance by giving
reluctant permission for the last of her three sons
to risk his life for the cause.
Fight well and honorably.
Jeremiah soon became thankful he had never
told the entire truth about the war in the few letters he
had sent home. He'd said nothing about the spoiled
meat dishonest suppliers sold to the army; nothing about
the wretched living conditions; nothing about the men who
fled under fire at Chickamauga, and the wholesale
desertions later. He hadn't wanted his mother to know
how bad conditions were. She had enough to fret about with
her home threatened and the well-being of Jeremiah's
two older brothers constantly in doubt. Everyone in
the Confederacy knew the risks taken by General
Stuart's regiments. And Matthew-who was too
easygoing to bother with more than one or two letters a
year- was somewhere on the Atlantic between Liverpool,
the Bermudas, and the Carolina coast, serving as
supercargo on a blockade runner.
54The Warriors
In Jeremiah's opinion, that was both honorable and
dashing. Typical of Matt, too. Jeremiah had
always admired and envied Matt, even though their times
together had been few. Fan's second son had been
away at sea since Jeremiah was a small boy.
If it had been possible, he'd gladly have
exchanged places with Matt. His brother had a
naturally happy disposition. Loved games,
particularly baseball, a game he and thousands of
other boys and young men had created in parks and
fields and dusty lots, adapting it from an old
English game Matt called rounders.
How vividly Jeremiah remembered the sweaty
excitement on Mart's face one autumn afternoon
years ago- he could recall the color and texture
of the sunshine, though not the date-the ebullience with which
Matt whooped and pranced when he came home,
celebrating the way he'd pounded out three aces with
his bat, and singlehandedly carried his ball team of
five black boys and four white ones to a
victory.
Matt possessed a talent for drawing that he'd
somehow discovered in himself when he was young. In his
imagination, Jeremiah could still see some of the
charcoal sketches Matt had sent home occasionally
after taking his first berth on a Charleston cotton
packet. The style of the drawings was bold,
personal, and unforgettable. Though Jeremiah had
seen less of Matt than he had of Gideon, he
felt a closer bond with Matt, and prayed he was
safe.
The cloud drifted away from the moon. He drew
deep breaths. The Enfield on his shoulder actually
weighed only eight pounds fourteen and a half
ounces, but it seemed ten times heavier tonight.
He pulled the canvas sling off and laid the piece
in the dirt, shutting his eyes until the attack of
dizziness passed.
While he stood swaying in the center of the road, his
right hand strayed to his belt; closed
unconsciously,
protectively over the piece of oilskin containing
the precious letter he'd promised to deliver.
He opened his eyes. The small animal noises
had stopped in the plum orchard. Or perhaps he
didn't hear them because of the ringing in his ears.
He licked the dry inside of his cheek; sniffed his
own abominable, unwashed smell. He wanted to stop
awhile but felt he shouldn't. What if the
farmer was hunting a horse, still intending to chase him?
Well, if that happened, let it. He'd just take
to the fields, where he could easily elude one
pursuer. He'd make faster progress if he
had a short rest.
He sank down on the shoulder, the Enfield near his
feet. For a brief moment a shameful despondency
swept over him. Everything was failing. The war was
lost, or would be soon, now that Lincoln had been
returned to the Presidency of the North just a couple
of weeks ago.
Lincoln hadn't run as a Republican, but under
some new label-the National Union party,
Jeremiah thought it was. As his running mate,
Abe the Ape had chosen a damned, ignorant
Tennessee politician named Johnson who'd
betrayed his own kind and sided with the North, claiming
the Constitution forbade any other decision. The
bottle forbade any other decision, Rose had
commented a day or two before his death. Johnson, he
said, was a drunkard.
Johnson would have no hand in carrying the war forward,
though. Just as Jefferson Davis did, Lincoln
personally picked and supervised his generals.
At first he'd chosen poor ones. The
pompous Democrat, Little Mac McClellan.
Old Burnside. Hooker, who had
inexplicably lost his nerve at Chancellorsville
and squandered a chance for a stunning victory.
But Jackson had been accidentally shot by men on his
own side at Chancellorsville, and that battle had
turned out to be less of a Southern triumph than it
might have been, even though J. E. B. Stuart had
led
the infantry from horseback, flourishing his saber,
jumping his stallion into enemy cannon
emplacements, and creating on the spot, to the tune of
Old Dan Tucker, a derisive song urging
Old Joe Hooker to come out of the Wilderness and
fight.
But then Jackson had perished of pneumonia. His
presence had been missed when Lee made his bold
foray into Pennsylvania a month later. Even
Meade, who'd defeated Lee in the North,
wasn't merciless enough to satisfy Lincoln. The
Yankee President wanted, and ultimately
found, a supreme commander who fought like a madman:
Unconditional Surrender Grant. Another
drunkard!
But he'd been sober enough to crush
Vicksburg in the west. Sober enough to take charge
of the Army of the Potomac in March of this year, and
begin to spend his soldiers by the thousands, the tens of
thousands, as though they weren't human beings but
manufactured parts in a grinding, unstoppable war
engine lubricated by blood and more blood.
The zest, the zeal that had led the South to stunning
successes early in the war had all but vanished.
Jeremiah could recall one or another officer
speaking with sad pride of Pickett's rush up a
gentle hillside toward a clump of trees on the
final day at Gettysburg, where Lee had
ultimately failed in his attempt to re-provision
his army with Yankee grain and Yankee meat, win a
daring victory on enemy ground, prove the folly
of Davis' policy of only fighting a defensive
war on Southern soil, and perhaps frighten the enemy
into suing for peace-all at one time!
The heroes such as Pickett were still praised, but few
of the living pretended their heroism had made much
difference. If the Confederacy hadn't surrendered in
fact, it had surrendered in spirit. Even the most
ardent patriot now had trouble believing otherwise.
That the South was indeed facing defeat had been
borne out by Fan's last letter, written
late in June and weeks in transit. The fury
of the war had found Fan at last. But that hadn't been
the only sad news. The letter contained tragic
tidings about Gideon.

Having escaped death on the Peninsula in '62,
Jeremiah's oldest brother had ridden unscathed
through action after action-until chance took him to a
place called Yellow Tavern on the eleventh of
May. There, he and General Stuart had met
Union horse soldiers of a kind they'd never
encountered before.
Even a year earlier, under Pleasonton, the Yank
cavalry couldn't match the South's. But it had been
growing steadily-dangerously-better. Now, led
by Sheridan, it had turned into a scythe sweeping across
Virginia. At Yellow Tavern the blade had
struck and killed Jeb Stuart.
Stuart's men had run into fierce, competent
opposition. The most dangerous Yanks turned out
to be Michigan men, riders who sported red
neckerchiefs, and whose regimental band played them
into the charge with Yankee Doodle. They were commanded
by an officer almost as flamboyant as Stuart
himself-twenty-four-year-old George
Armstrong Custer, the "boy general," who led them,
screaming, "Come on, you Wolverines!"
Custer wore gold spurs, slept with a pet
raccoon, and dressed his long curls with cinnamon
oil. Jeremiah had read occasional newspaper
accounts describing him as a man who expressed no
great personal animosity toward Southerners; he was
just out to whip them.
Like Stuart, he thrived on being called a
daredevil. The personal motto he'd brought with
him from West Point was "promotion or death"-though from
the way he often defied caution in battle, the
motto apparently meant his promotion would be earned
by the deaths of
others. A Democrat, he still managed to remain the
darling of the Washington Republicans, the public,
and a press that eulogized him as Napoleon's
successor.
At Yellow Tavern one of Custer's Wolverines
had shot Stuart out of the saddle. Another had engaged
Gideon comor so his immediate superior wrote Fan the
following week. During the combat, horseman against
horseman, Gideon had reared back in his saddle
to dodge a saber stroke, lost his balance, and
tumbled to the ground. In a matter of
seconds enemy troopers had swarmed around him,
taking him prisoner.
So now Gideon was either dead, or alive and rotting
in one of the prison pits of the North. Fort
Delaware, or possibly Elmira in New
York.
And as if that loss hadn't been grievous enough,
Fan's letter also reported that Hunter's cavalry
had swept through the Valley to Lexington. In the
surrounding countryside, the Yankee horsemen had
burned mills, granaries, farm implements-then
buildings in the town, including the Military
Institute, Governor Letchr's residence, and
other private homes. Only old Washington
College had been spared at the last moment because some
of Hunter's men refused to torch an institution
honoring the nation's first President.
Fan tried to conceal her sadness when she wrote her
youngest son. But it came through clearly in the final
paragraphs which spoke of the privation sweeping the
Confederacy as the enemy blockade bottled up
port after port.
Profiteers had driven prices out of the reach of
ordinary people. Fan commented that she had no good cotton
stockings left, but would make do with old ones
since she couldn't afford eight dollars for a new
pair.
She'd forgotten what coffee tasted like, she said.
Southerners who had cornered the existing supply
demanded up to forty dollars a pound.
And when her doctor had prescribed a dose of
calomel, it was unaffordable at twenty dollars the
ounce.
Even the physical look of the letter was testimony that
the end was coming. There was no more writing paper to be had
in Lexington, Fan noted. So an enterprising
merchant had devised some from an old roll of wall
paper. Inside the envelope, and on the back of
each sheet, was a crudely printed floral
pattern.
It was almost over.
Rose had been right. His wife and daughter
undoubtedly needed Jeremiah's help more than the
army did. With the Rose women, he'd find a
place where his presence would make a difference again.
But if he was going to find them, he couldn't sit in the
moonlight. Weary as he was, he had to keep
moving.
With effort, he stood up. Reached down for the
Enfield. When his ringers were an inch from the
weapon, he heard a sound on the road behind him.
He straightened, searching the shifting silver shadows
of the landscape.
He couldn't see them; they were too far away. But
he heard them.
Mounted men. Coming fast.
That farmer. That damned, vengeful old man!
He hadn't been satisfied to locate one horse
and ride after Jeremiah alone-he'd had to roust out his
neighbors and lead them in pursuit.
Jeremiah shivered, remembering the farmer's warning.
As punishment for his desertion, he'd hang.
"Sixty Thousand Strong*
ALMOST AS SOON as the appalling thought struck
him, Jeremiah began to question whether it made sense.
How the devil could an old man muster a party of
neighbors in a rural area? There were damn few
males left on homesteads anywhere in the South,
unless you counted boys and old men. Horses were
equally scarce, that much Jeremiah knew for certain.
Still, those were horsemen hammering toward him. Who could
they be?
Georgia Home Guards? No, he'd heard they
couldn't find mounts either.
Enemy cavalry, then? Some of the ruffians
who rode with the blond-bearded Yank, Judson
Kilpatrick?
He didn't know. But he didn't intend to linger in
the middle of the road and find out. The riders were coming
faster than he'd anticipated. The moon's
whiteness lit a rolling, phosphorescent cloud of
dust at the crest of a hill he judged to be no more
than half a mile away. Figures that seemed
part man, part horse, appeared and vanished in the
swirling dust.
Jeremiah grabbed the Enfield and sprinted for the
ditch to the left of the road, where the brook ran. A
small boulder hidden in the long grass tripped
him. With a curse, he went tumbling down the
incline. He splashed into the shallow water,
remembering at the last moment to twist his body
to keep the oilskin pouch and his cartridge box dry.
'Sixty Thousand Strong861
The dust cloud rolled toward him, the hammer of
hooves growing steadily louder. As he lay with his
right side in water that felt incredibly cold, he
realized he'd dropped the Enfield when he fell.
He raised himself a little-the movement seemed to create
a noise loud as a waterfall-just as the first of the
horsemen thundered by. Once more a cloud
cleared the edge of the moon. There, plainly visible
on the shoulder, his piece shone bright.
Someone saw it. Yelled. The horsemen reined in,
the leading riders turning back. As he sank down
and lay still, Jeremiah tried to count the looming
figures. A dozen; maybe more.
A man dismounted, cocking a pistol. He reached for the
Enfield. He wore a forage cap much like
Jeremiah's.
"Enfield, Captain." The man raised the piece
to his chest. "I can feel stamping-C.s.a."
Another man pointed:
"Weeds are matted down right there. Whoever dropped
it may be hidin"."
Two more pistols were cocked. The horses fretted
and stamped. A tall man rode through the group to the
side of the road nearest the brook. He leaned over
his horse's neck, as if studying the ground. Then
he called out:
"You down there. You better come out."
Jeremiah thought the voice had a soft, relaxed
sound. A Southern sound.
The tall man drew a carbine from a saddle
scabbard.
"I said, come out"
Soaked, Jeremiah staggered to his feet and
clambered through the grass to the road, his hands raised
above his head.

The barrel of the tall man's carbine glowed in a
spill of moonlight. Water dripped from
Jeremiah's fingers, from the bandage on his thigh, the
torn hem of his tunic, the havelock attached
to his cap.
"Captain?" one of the men exclaimed. "He looks
like one of ours!"
They were Southerners. The moon showed him dusty
cadet-gray sleeves and trouser legs that matched
his own, except for the yellow trim. This wasn't as
bad as being caught by Yanks-unless the men were as
ferocious about desertion as that old farmer.
The captain waggled his carbine. Jeremiah
glimpsed a double line of gold braid on his cap
as he asked:
"Who are you?"
Jeremiah pivoted slightly so the moonlight would
show the chevrons on his sleeve:
"Corporal Kent, sir."
"Turn. I can't see the badge on your cap."
"I lost it, sir." He'd learned a
lesson from the farmer. He tried to sound calm, as
if he had nothing to hide. "I'm from the
Sixty-third Virginia, last with Reynolds's
brigade, Stevenson's division-was
A horseman further back growled, "Didn't
know they was any Virginny boys with the Army of
Tennessee, Cap'n."
"Two or three regiments, I think." The
captain was a heavy man, with jowls. Moonlight
on one cheek showed a scattering of pox scars like
miniature black craters. "Corporal, give
me the name of your corps commander."
Cautiously, Jeremiah said, "You know we were
Hood's Corps, sir. But General Hood was
leading the whole army, so our actual commander was
General
"Sixty Thousand Strong"63
Lee. General Stephen D. Lee," he added for
authenticity.
The mutter of a couple of the men said they recognized
that he was telling the truth. The captain raised the
carbine to quiet them. Then, sharply:
"Were you with Bob Lee in-Pennsylvania?"
"No, sir, I mustered in a month afterward."
Another voice; suspicious:
"Didn't your regiment lose a flag at
Gettysburg?"
"Not to my recollection." He'd heard enough of the
history of both Virginia units that had been
transferred to the west to recognize the trap. "I
think it was the other bunch in the Army of Tennessee.
The Fifty-fourth. When I joined up, my
regiment belonged to the Second Brigade,
Department of Western Virginia. But we were put
on the cars along with the Fifty-fourth and-was
"You detached from service?" the captain interrupted.
Jeremiah's hands grew colder. He struggled
to keep his voice level:
"Yes, sir. I was invalided out at Palmetto,
after General Hood left for Tennessee."
He lifted his leg to show the bloodied bandage, even
though the pain grew ferocious when he bent his knee.
But maybe they'd be less suspicious than the
farmer. Blood was blood. They couldn't tell
he'd gotten the wound from another of those damned old
country boys who didn't want soldiers, any
soldiers, prowling around their property.
The last of the turkey meat had run out when he was
near Milledgeville. On the outskirts of
Atlanta he'd slipped into a chicken
house after dark. In spite of his efforts to keep
quiet, he'd roused the flock. Wakened by the
squawking, the poultryman had come charging from his
house. He hadn't even issued a challenge or
asked a question, just blasted away with a shotgun as
Jeremiah dashed off. Once out of danger, he'd
cut four buckshot out of his leg with a sheath knife
he kept in his right boot. Then he'd cleaned the
wound as best he could and bandaged it with his torn-up
underdrawers.
The captain wanted to know more about the wound:
"In what action were you hit?"
"Jonesboro," Jeremiah said promptly. "Afternoon
of the last day of August."
The dismounted man holding the Enfield said, "Well,
I know Steve Lee was there, all right."
The captain: "Last day of August, you say.
Sure as hell taking a long time for that to heal,
isn't it?"
"Infection set in. For a while the doctors thought
I might lose the leg altogether. Got knocked down
with dysentery at the same time. Actually I had
two wounds. The one in my shoulder's come along just
fine. This one, though-doesn't seem to want to mend
right."
While the captain digested the information, Jeremiah
decided he'd better tell as much as he dared.
These men sounded more persuadable than the farmer. He
might be able to outwit them. But not if he seemed
reluctant to talk.
"My commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel
Rose, he came out of the Thirty-sixth Georgia
in Cummings' brigade. After Chickamauga he was
assigned to division staff for a while. I was picked
to be his orderly and courier. He got shot at
Jonesboro too. Died the same night. Before he
passed on, he ordered me to go to his plantation if
I got out. He said only his wife and daughter were
left to run it." He added an invention he thought
sounded logical, and might divert their suspicion
even more:
"The colonel told me his nigras were getting
fractious because of Old Abe's proclamation-was
"Yep, that's sure as hell happening," someone
agreed. "All over."
"Where's this plantation?" the captain asked him.
"Sixty Thousand Strong865
Jeremiah began to feel a little less tense;
maybe the issue of desertion wouldn't come up at
all if he kept trying to convince them he was
doing what he thought to be his duty.
"Near Louisville, across the Ogeechee River in
Jefferson County. Seems like I've been walking
for days to get to it."
"Well, you have thirty or forty miles still to go," the
captain informed him. "More or less due east." A
hand scratched at the pox scars. "I gather you
felt this personal business more important than
returning to your unit?"
Jeremiah scowled. To help them see his anger, he
yanked off his forage cap. The sudden movement shied
a couple of the horses.
The moon struck his dark eyes and matted hair as
he straightened to his full height. In the light,
the white streak showed plainly, starting at the
hairline above his left brow and tapering to a point
at the back of his head.
Honesty had failed him with the farmer; he didn't
intend to repeat the mistake:
"Sir, I told you-I was invalided out! It was either
head home for Virginia-too blasted far away-or
stay in Georgia and do what the colonel asked of
me while he was dying. My unit had already moved out
north again. I felt I owed the colonel's
womenfolk some protection -'specially
since the colonel saved my life at
Jonesboro."
"Oh?" The captain cocked his head. "How'd he
do that?"
Jeremiah told him the story.
"You have any proof to support what you're saying?"
the captain asked.
Jeremiah almost reached for the oilskin pouch. He
held back; the contents of the letter were still unknown
to him. What if Rose had written his wife saying
he intended to urge his orderly to desert?
"No, sir, I'm sorry, I have nothing."
"What's the name of this here plantation?" the dismounted
man with the Enfield said.
"It's called Rosewood. After the colonel's
people."
"I've heard of it," the captain told him. "I
come from near Savannah My papa was a cotton
broker before he died I believe he did business
with the Rose family at one time-was All at once
he sounded more tolerant. "If your unit's gone
to Tennessee and you were pronounced unfit to serve, I
suppose you made the best choice."
Jeremiah breathed a bit easier. The captain
went on:
"And those women you mentioned--they're liable to need all
the protection they can get. All of Georgia's
liable to need it, matter of fact."
"What do you mean, sir?"
Hunching forward, the captain said, "Corporal, do
you have any notion as to who we disare?"
Jeremiah tried to smile. "I know you're on the
right side. And those yellow facings say you're
cavalry."
"My name's Dilsey. Captain Robert
Dilsey. We're with Genera! Joe Wheeler.
Scouting Sherman."
"Sherman. But he's back near Atlanta!"
Dilsey shook his head, "Not any more. Fact is,
we're about all that stands between that son of a bitch and the
seacoast Excepting of course, the Home Guard that
Governor Brown's trying to turn out." One of
Dilsey's troopers snickered contemptuously.
"But old men carrying rake? and hoes aren't going
to be worth a hoot against Billy Sherman."
Thunderstruck, Jeremiah gasped, "You mean he's
on the move?"
Dilsey sighed and nodded. "Started last
Wednesday. Marched out in two columns, sixty
thousand strong. Slocum has two infantry
corps on the left wing, Howard
Sixty
Thousand Strong
two more on the right. And that Kilpatrick's riding
along with them."
"Where's Sherman going?"
A shrug. "Appears he's headed straight across the
state to the ocean. Looks like he's just said to hell with
maintaining supply lines and is poling off in this
direction to do any damage he can."
Another caustic voice:
"Mebbe he's tired of fightin" men. Mebbe he
wants to fight females and young "uns for a
change."
The captain didn't take it as a joke.
"Certainly possible. He's got a reputation for
being half crazy sometimes. A move in this direction
violates every sound principle of strategy. But
he's coming-along with that blasted butcher,
Kilpatrick. You know what they call Little
-Kil's riders, Corporal? The
Kill-cavalry. We're moving southeast to stay
ahead of them. Trying to find 'ou for certain where
they're actually going. Harass them, if we can."
The announcement of the sudden advance by the
general who'd captured and burned Atlanta still
sounded unbelievable. Jeremiah groped for words:
"But-but I don't think there are any troops left
to fight in this part of the state!"
The man with the Enfield said, "Well, there's you."
He puzzled over the laughter the remark produced
as Dilsey said:
"There is plenty of food in Georgia for a
change. Finest crop in years, I'm told. And
Bob Lee's army still depends on what comes out of
this breadbasket. So if you look at Sherman's
move in that light, if makes more sense. I'd
guess he's after the food, though he may be after
Savannah as well."
"That's crazy!" Jeremiah cried.
"Any man who burns damn near a whole city
doesn't fight like a gentleman, Corporal-or
by the book. You'd better keep on toward
Jefferson County and tell
the Rose ladies Old Billy's probably coming
their way." The man with the Enfield spat.
"Goddamn soon."
Warriors Their way."
his
111
Despite the stunning news, Jeremiah felt
oddly elated. He'd convinced Dilsey of the
authenticity of his story; done it just right, too. The
word desertion hadn't even been uttered.
One of the cavalrymen spoke:
"Captain, we ought to be movin"dis"
"Agree was Dilsey said. "Kent we'd fill your
canteen if you had one. We've fetched along some
goobers to eat. Hand him some Mullins."
Jeremiah raised his arm to accept the handful just as
Dilsey uttered a hard, peculiar chuckle that
chilled him. Again Dilsey scratched his face.
"You're lucky to be alive, Corporal, you know
that? We stopped at a farm a few miles back.
Watered our horses from the well. We heard about
you."
Jeremiah closed his fist on the goobers; almost
dropped them slipping them into his pocket. What a
fool he'd been What a damn fool. He
hadn't tricked Dilsey for one minute.
The captain pointed at Jeremiah's leg.
"That injury may hurt. But as the old farmer said,
lots of boys shot up worse than you are still with their
regiments. So I don't expect you were invalided
out. I expect you up and left. As for the
rest-I'm willing to accept it. Strikes me it
has too many warts to be an outright lie. I
don't know what persuaded you to tell me the
truth-or ninety percent of it, anyway. You
didn't tell the farmer. But as I say-you're
lucky you changed your mind. If you'd just handed me that
tale about going home-was
Dilsey rammed his carbine in the scabbard. Reached
down and snatched the Enfield from the dismounted
trooper. Aimed it at Jeremiah's chest, his
smile humorless:
"comI'd have used your own weapon on you. Killed you
where you stand."
He flung the Enfield. Jeremiah barely
managed to catch it. Dilsey laughed at him; a
hollow, unfriendly laugh:
"As things worked out, however, you're going to find yourself
smack back in the war. Why, you may turn out to be
the only young man within forty miles of that plantation.
Commander of the whole resistance! Hope you can handle that.
After running away, seems fitting you should be
required to try."
Seething, Jeremiah watched Captain Dilsey and
his men re-order themselves into a column of twos.
Moonlight spilled across the officer's
back; his face was hidden. When he spoke, he
sounded cheerful and cruel at the same time:
"Good luck to you, Corporal. I hereby promote
you to general in command of Jefferson County."
He wheeled his mount with a ferocious yank of the rein and
galloped off along the country road, his men right
behind. Their passing left another phosphorescent
dust cloud that soon hid them from sight.
iv
Sixty thousand, Jeremiah thought, the barrel of the
rifled musket shaking in his hand. Sixty thousand led
by the wickedest soldiers in the whole damn Union
army!
By letting him go on to Rosewood alone, Dilsey
had punished him. He too had failed to understand
Jeremiah's sense of duty and loyalty-
How that soft-spoken man must have been laughing to himself
all during Jeremiah's babble about Colonel
Rose. For a moment the humiliating anger was almost
beyond bearing.
It began to pass when he reminded himself that he was still
alive. And Sherman's coming would indeed give him a
chance to fight again. All in all, despite thinking
he'd fooled Dilsey and the shock of Dilsey's
announcement that he hadn't, he concluded that
things could have been a devil of a lot worse. The hand
clasping the Enfield grew steadier.
Jeremiah laid the weapon down, shelled and
swallowed four of the goobers given him by the
cavalrymen. They settled hard in his stomach,
producing almost instantaneous pain. He was forced
to sit down on the shoulder of the road, clutching his
middle, praying for the pain to ease.
It didn't.
A bird shrilled in the plum orchard. But miserable
as he felt, he still believed his luck had taken a
better turn. One Enfield would make no
difference in Tennessee. It could make a lot of
difference in Georgia.
Under the black and silver sky, he jammed the butt
of the Enfield into the grass and literally climbed hand
over hand to get to his feet. He still felt shaky and
frightened. Tortured by spasms of pain, he stepped
onto the road, hurrying-
He went only a quarter of a mile before he began
to stagger The goobers came up in a retching heave.
He was forced to unfasten and drop his trousers and crouch
dizzily awhile.
Covered with cold sweat and aching from his breastbone
to his groin, he eventually managed to start
walking again. He passed another ramshackle
farmhouse. A cow lowed in the vast dark. Pushing
himself with every bit of his remaining strength, he kept
trudging on.
Toward Jefferson County.
Toward two women he'd never met.
Toward a chance to fight honorably again-
Sixty thousand strong, he kept thinking. Jesus
Almighty!
"Sixty Thousand Strong"71
Yet in spite of the terrifying numbers and his
physical agony, his spirit wouldn't break. Mentally,
he felt stronger and more determined than he had in
weeks.
still" get there.
I'll get there before Billy Sherman-if I have
to crawl every foot of the way.
The Slave
THE FIRST SENSATION was heat Stifling heat; too
intense for November.
An insect whined at the back of his neck. With his
eyes still closed, he tried to raise his right hand
to swat it. He couldn't seem to summon enough strength
to draw his hand from what felt like mud.
The insect landed on his havelock, then on
exposed skin. He clawed his hand out of the mud as the
insect bit-a faint, nearly painless sting. The whine
diminished.
Panicky, he tried to recall where he was. That
is, where he'd been when he sprawled on the ground
at twilight on-
Tuesday. Yesterday had been Tuesday.
Late in the day he'd forded the Ogeechee River,
bypassed the little town of Louisville, and tried
to follow directions given him by a farmer's boy.
Somehow he'd taken a wrong turn at a
crossroad. The road he was walking had petered out
in brambles at the edge of a bare cotton field
near the river.
Still sick, he'd blundered ahead-straight into a maze
of little tributaries of the river, a place of rank
water and steaming gloom produced by huge
cypresses and live oaks. He'd slopped across
one shallow backwater and up the far bank, intending
to lie down and rest only a few moments. That was
all he remembered until now.
He grew alarmed by a weightlessness in two places
where there should have been weight. The precious Enfield
no longer pressed against his shoulder; his cartridge
box was missing from his belt.
His face felt scorching; oily. He knew he
had the fever again.
He dragged his left hand back. Fumbled at his
waist.
The oilskin pouch was still there, thank God.
He heard a foot squish down in mud. Heard a
man breathing. His teeth started to chatter as he opened
his eyes.
Ten inches from his nose a small turtle lay
upside down on the curve of its shell. The
turtle had withdrawn its head and legs. He
couldn't tell whether it was alive or dead, A
short distance beyond the turtle he saw a man's
feet, calves, and the bottoms of tattered
trousers. His panic worsened.
Thick, horny toenails were half hidden in
rust-colored mud. But Jeremiah could see the skin
well enough--Black skin.

He heard a heavy, mellow voice, neither friendly
nor hostile:
"You 'wake, mister soldier?"
Jeremiah's head jerked up. His temples throbbed
from the sudden move. His lips compressed he jammed
his fists into the red clay bank where he'd
slept. Doubled his knees. Eventually staggered
to his feet, his uniform filthy, his face and hair
caked with mud.
"Who are you? Where am I?"
The black man was superbly built, with a slender
waist and a broad chest. A ragged shirt cut off
at the shoulders exposed thick arms. He was about
thirty, Jeremiah guessed. His skin was so dark it
had a blue cast.
The man's eyes were almost perfectly oval, with
huge brown pupils. He stood in a placid,
relaxed pose. Yet
Jeremiah couldn't escape an irrational feeling that
the Negro was simmering with hostility.
"Which question you want me to answer first?"
Jeremiah saw a double image of the black's
curly head. He squeezed his eyelids shut and
spread his feet, hoping to keep his balance.
"Tell me where I am."
"This here's a swamp down by the acreage we call
the bottom."
"Who calls it that?" The black's
lackadaisical air angered him. "Don't you know
how to be civil to a white man?"
"Why, 'course I do." But Jeremiah
thought he saw a corner of the man's mouth twitch.
"The bottom land belongs to Rosewood."
"Rosewood," he repeated. "Colonel Henry
Rose's place?"
The black licked his lips. Staring into those round
brown pupils, Jeremiah thought, My Lord, he
hates me. Or he hates the uniform I'm
wearing, anyway. He diswas increasingly aware that
he lacked any weapon except the sheathed knife in
his boot. Without the Enfield he felt naked.
"Reckon there ain't another Rosewood in the
county."
"It's the place I've been hunting." Fingers
plucked at the pouch on his belt. "I'm carrying a
message for the colonel's wife."
The black stared, as if he didn't comprehend.
"Is this Wednesday?"
It took awhile for the black man to decide
to reply:
"That's right, Wednesday. Every Wednesday Miz
Rose gives me an hour in the mornin" to come
catch cooters." His glance flicked to the turtle.
"Can't abide "em myself. But I sell 'em
to Miz Rose for soup. She's real kind,
lettin" us niggers make a little money of
our own." The last words carried a faintly caustic
edge.
"Then you're from the plantation. One of the slaves-was
-A quick, adamant shake of the head:
"No more."
"Oh?"
The man smiled. "Year ago January, Linkum
said I wasn't property. Jubilee's come,
mister soldier."
Yet he spoke the words joylessly; sounded angry.
Jeremiah was growing increasingly angry over with the
man's quiet arrogance:
"If you think you're free-was
"I know I'm free."
"Then what the hell are you doing around here?"
A shrug. "Waitin"dis"
"For what?"
"To see who wins. If you boys lose, I can go
off anyplace I choose. But if you win an' I
leave ahead of time, I could be in a peck of trouble.
Don't appear likely that you're goin' to win,
though. Still-can't be too careful. Isn't that right?"
Smart bastard, Jeremiah thought. Smart, wily
bastard. Getting out of this swamp alive may take
some doing.
He scanned the area; saw nothing but narrow
watercourses winding between mud banks and the great
trees. Sunlit insects flitted over
green-scummed water like flakes of living gold.
"What's your name?"
"Price."
"Which way's the house?"
"Yonder," Price told him, with such a faint
inclination of his head that he might have meant any point
on a whole quarter of the horizon.
"Your overseer anyplace close by?"
Price smiled. "Don't think so. He went off
to fight jus' like the colonel. Ain't come back.
Any overseein' to be done, Miz Catherine does
it."
"That's the colonel's wife-was
was "Pears you know a lot about the Rose family,
mister soldier."
"My name is Kent. Corporal Kent. You call
me that, hear?"
Silence. The black's eyes wandered down to the
turtle, which appeared to be dead.
Even more sharply, Jeremiah said: "And lead me up
to the house. I told you I have an important
paper for your mistress. The colonel
gave it to me before-was
Abruptly, he held back from breaking the news of
Rose's death. The colonel's wife and daughter
deserved to hear it first.
Price looked indifferent. God, what were those
wicked Yanks in Washington City thinking about,
granting freedom to men like this?
Of course Jeremiah knew very well what they were
thinking about: the possibility that the blacks might
rise up against their masters and aid the Northern war
effort. Lincoln's detested proclamation in the first
month of 1863 hadn't been so generous as to free every
black man in the land; not by a damn sight. The
President and that vicious pack of Republicans
he served had only declared blacks were free in the
rebelling states. Lieutenant Colonel Rose
had commented caustically on that limitation one time:
"Old Abe has enough trouble on his hands without
antagonizing the border states. Besides, I've
read some of his speeches. He doesn't believe
nigras are the white man's equal. He'd just as
soon ship them all to Liberia and be shed of them.
He's freeing our nigras to make it hotter for us,
that's all. He's no humanitarian, he's a
cheap politician who'll use any
available trick to beat us down."
Jeremiah had accepted that as gospel; it jibed with
all the anti-Northern talk he'd heard as a
boy. Lincoln's proclamation was merely one more
example of how
dishonorably the enemy was conducting the war. Let the
North-and nigras like this one-praise Abe
Lincoln as a high-minded emancipator;
Jeremiah knew that wasn't the truth at all.
With a move that rippled the muscles of his right forearm,
Price reached up to flick sweat from his shiny blue
cheek. He grinned, his eyes still mocking:
"You don" finish a lot of your sentences, mister
soldier."
Sentences? That was a mighty fancy word for an
ordinary field hand. The realization confirmed his
feeling that this was a dangerous man. Price
probably knew how to read and write-had no doubt
learned in secret, in defiance of the law.
"That's my business."
The smile remained fixed. "Guess it is. You
say you got a paper from the colonel "fore somethin"
happened to him?"
"Before I left him. Also none of your affair. You
take me to the house-right after you tell me
something." He swallowed hard, trying to stand steady.
Price cocked his head, waiting.
"You tell me what happened to my musket."
Price blinked twice, his expression
deliberately blank. Jeremiah wanted to hit
him.
"Musket?" Price turned his head right, then
left. "Don't see no musket anyplace
"round here-was
"I had my Enfield and my cartridge box with me
when I passed out! They're gone."
"Can't help that. I didn't spy any such
'quipment when I come onto you lyin" there. Guess
somebody must have stole it during the night."
"Who the hell would wander through a place like this during the
night?"
"Oh, mebbe some of the other niggers from the
neighborhood, mister-ah, Corporal," Price
corrected himself with an obviously forced politeness.
"No, I
surely can't tell you what happened to that gun and that
box. You didn't have "em when I found you, and
since I was the only one awake right about then,
guess you'll just have to take my word for it."
Jeremiah took a step forward, almost
falling:
"You stole them. You hid them someplace. Didn't
you?"
Price's gaze admitted it. But his face grew
pious:
"Now that's a frightful thing to 'cuse a man of,
Corporal. Me, a field buck, steal a white
man's weapon an" hide it? Why, I could be
whipped half to death for such a thing, if Miz
Catherine was the kind who whipped her niggers. No,
sir, I jus' don't know what become of those things
you're talkin' "bout. You'll just have to take my
word."
Price's dazzling grin scorned him as a fool.
Jeremiah concluded he might have been wrong about the
cause of Price's insolence. The man's
pigmentation might have nothing to do with it.
I wouldn't trust this son of a bitch if he were as
white as me.
Price leaned down to scoop up the dead cooter.
He sounded almost obsequious:
"Care to hang onto my arm, Corporal?"
"No, thank you."
"You sure lookin" poorly. It's "bout a
mile to the house-was
"I'll manage!"
The black watched him, the smile gone. Jeremiah
felt increasingly threatened:
He's taken the Enfield and hidden it where he can go
back and find it.
Use it.
"This way, then."
Jeremiah staggered after him, wondering whether
Lieutenant Colonel Rose's widow knew
exactly what sort of treacherous rascal she was
harboring. As if
things weren't bad enough with those sixty thousand
bluebellies somewhere to the northwest and no male
overseer on the place, the two women he was going
to meet were threatened by a mean, devious nigra who
now had a gun.
Jeremiah's head pounded. He was shivering
uncontrollably. The path out of the swamp seemed
an endless maze.
He forced himself to keep up. Price might be
older, but Jeremiah realized he couldn't let the
black man think he was stronger or smarter-even
though Price had already outfoxed him by purloining the
musket and ammunition.
Price cast a quick glance backward.
Jeremiah looked him straight in the eye. The
black pretended to study a wild turkey roosting
in a live oak, but Jeremiah thought he heard the
man snicker.
Got to watch out for that one, he thought.
Walk behind him all the time.
Behind him. Never ahead. *
Rosewood
PRICE AND JEREMIAH approached Rosewood
from a gently sloping cotton field that had been
harvested earlier in the autumn. Though he was dizzy
and hot-particularly now that he and the black man were
into the full glare of the sunlight-he felt a
peculiar sense of happiness at the sight of the
plantation. To him it was very nearly a second home,
so often and so lovingly had the slender, courtly
Henry Rose described it.
Rosewood's land, accumulated by the colonel's
father and grandfather, totaled about a thousand acres.
Something like sixty-five slaves had worked the
property, three-quarters of which the colonel had
put into cotton, the remainder going into com.
Originally Rosewood had been a rice
plantation. But in the past two decades cotton
had proved a far superior cash crop,
even though the product of Rose's fields never
commanded the premium prices of the cotton grown in
Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana.
The plantation had a prosperous, if oddly deserted
look this Wednesday morning. Directly ahead
stood two large, immaculate barns. Beyond them
Jeremiah glimpsed the end of the white-painted
three-story manse that faced a dirt highway on
his left. A half-mile road led from the highway
to the house between rows of live oaks Rose's grandfather
had planted. Festoons of tillandsia hung from the
branches, providing extra shade
all the way to the white-painted fencing, the gate, and the
bell with a rope pull.
As he and Price approached, more of the house came
into view. He saw the front piazza, shaded
by lattices twined with cypress vines. Square
pillars reached up to a second-floor gallery
running the entire length of the house. Starting near a
well at the back of the building and running away from
it at a right angle stood two long rows of slave
cottages. The paint on the cottages had peeled
in a few places, but otherwise they looked well
kept. Directly behind the last two was a small
picket-fenced burial ground.
Black men, women, and children idled in the dirt lane
dividing the rows of tiny houses. An elderly
slave tending a garden patch turned to stare at the
gray-clad stranger and Price as they rounded the
barn and passed three large hog pens.
Magnolias had been planted near the perimeter
of the pens. Rose had told Jeremiah he'd done
that so the smell of the blooming trees would partially
mask the stench of pig manure. This morning the stench
was overpowering.
Past the manse Jeremiah saw the large gin house
and two equally big corn cribs. Several
blacks hailed Price from the cabin street. He
acknowledged the greetings with little more than a curt
nod. His arrogance told Jeremiah the man was
someone special among his own kind.
A crowd had gathered near the stone well at the head
of the lane, plainly curious about Price's
companion. But Price's erect posture and steady
stride seemed to preclude interference.
"Reckon we might find Miz Catherine in the
office," the big man remarked as they walked onto
the rear piazza. The cooling shade made
Jeremiah feel better. But not much.
Price tossed the dead turtle onto the
ground beyond the piazza.. A naked tot darted toward
it from the well.
One swift glance from Price sent a young woman
dashing out to pick up her child before he could touch the
prize. She had a frightened look on her face.
Jeremiah leaned a sweaty palm against the side of the
house, struggling to catch his breath. He felt
close to passing out again:
"Give me a minute-was
Price folded his arms, waiting. The black's
silence seemed a condemnation of Jeremiah's
weakness.
Voice rasping, Jeremiah said, "Pretty
quiet for a weekday."
"That's true. Cotton's all baled. Corn's
in. We're waitin" to see what's goin'
to happen."
"What do you mean?"
"Judge Claypool's nigger, Floyd, he come
rammin' over in the judge's buggy yesterday. He
said there was Yanks on the march from Atlanta. A
whole lot of Yanks."
The unblinking eyes fixed on Jeremiah. "You
see any Yanks while you was comin' this way?"
Jeremiah shook his head. "But I met
some cavalrymen. They said General Sherman's
left the vicinity of the city with sixty-with some men."
"Well, now!" All at once Price seemed quite
interested.
"Don't get your hopes too high. The cavalry
boys didn't know which route the troops were taking."
"Judge Claypool's Floyd, he said Mr.
Doremus of Louisville rode back from
Milledgeville, an' when he left, the Yanks
was almost there. That was Monday. Could be a mighty
interesting Thanksgiving."
Thick-tongued, Jeremiah repeated,
"Thanksgiving?"
"That's right." The corner of Price's mouth
quirked up again. Damn the black thief for treating
him like a slave instead of a master! "Didn't you
"member Thanksgiving's only two days away?
We usually have a
mighty big dinner for Thanksgiving. Maybe this
year, the Yanks'll roast us instead. What d'you
think?"
"I think you better shut up with jokes like that."
Price chuckled. "Yes, sir."
Jeremiah had completely forgotten the holiday. The
amused gaze of the slave irritated him.
He was willing to bet Price would love exactly
the sort of Thanksgiving he'd described.
Price would probably help the damn Yanks
overrun Rosewood-using the Enfield he'd
stolen.
The brief happiness he'd felt at finally reaching
his destination was fading, driven from his mind by the
black's silent contempt and the knowledge that he still had to inform
the colonel's wife about her widowhood. He
assumed she didn't know, and he didn't look
forward to telling her. It would require tact; the
proper words; a clear head. And his head was anything
but clear. His ears buzzed; his eyes watered; his
legs felt boneless. He wondered how much longer
he could stay on his feet.
"My," Price murmured, evidently still thinking of
Sherman. "We could sure have a real jubilee of a
Thanksgiving 'round here-was Then, with a touch of
impatience: "We can go inside whenever you feelin"
up to it."
He wasn't, but he said, "I'm feeling up to it."
t Price bobbed his head, leading him to the rear
entrance.
As they stepped across the threshold, Price underwent
an abrupt and noticeable transformation.
He seemed to lose two or three inches in
height. He bent his head forward slightly. His
step became slower. The buck was trickier than
old Billy Sherman himself!
They walked down a cool, dim hall smelling of
furniture oil and more faintly of roasting sweet
potatoes. Price's posture gave him an almost
servile look. He knocked at an open
doorway on the left. Immediately, Jeremiah heard
a firm feminine voice: "Come."
Dreading the encounter with Mrs. Rose, Jeremiah
walked unsteadily toward the door as Price
disappeared, scraping his bare feet in what was almost a
shuffle.
The light in the small, cluttered office had a
hazy quality. The polished oak floor seemed
to tilt. Price stood between Jeremiah and the woman
at the desk. He couldn't see much of her except
for a skirt, but he did glimpse objects on the
desk. Open ledgers. A pen laid aside. A
large ring with a dozen or more keys on it. A cut
glass goblet half full of something that looked like
fruit wine. Blackberry, he decided.
"Yes, Price, what is it?"
The slave deliberately thickened his
speech:
"Miz Catherine, I found this yere officer lyin
sick down in the swamp beyond the bottom. He come
to rind you-was
Blinking to clear his vision, Jeremiah quickly took
in the details of the office. Two walls were
entirely covered with shelves crowded with books.
On the spine of one he recognized a design his
mother had shown him once. A gold stamping of a
partially filled and stoppered bottle; the mark of the
publishing house of Kent and Son, owned by the
despised Northern branch of the family.
Near the ledgers on the desk stood a small oil
painting depicting a sad-eyed, sandy-bearded man.
Rose. Beside it was an even smaller frame with a
curling lock of bright red hair sealed under glass
above a small square card. On the card in ink that
had long ago faded, someone had written:
andw tilde , "*plus and
Serena was Rose's daughter by his first marriage.
The colonel had alluded to the marriage several
times, but never discussed it in any detail-nor his
former wife. Jeremiah had gotten the impression that
Serena's mother must have been the wrong sort. Rose was
closemouthed about her, in contrast to his
constant praise of Catherine.
He'd said Catherine was a woman of warm, loving
temperament-the closest a gentleman ever came
to admitting his wife had a passionate streak. He
described her as intelligent and trusting of her
fellow human beings, willing to believe only the
best about them- including the slaves-but not lacking the
strength to take action if her original opinion
proved wrong. Jeremiah was going to have to warn this
paragon of womanhood about Price.
Dimly, he realized Price was still speaking with a
slurry politeness quite different from his earlier rude
mockery.
"compoor officer, he lost his gun during the night.
Those trash niggers of Judge Claypool's who
fish 'round here probably picked it off him. I
think we ought to report it to the judge right quick. We
sure don't want no niggers with muskets
runnin" loose-"specially with them Yanks on the
way like this officer says."
Damned liar, Jeremiah thought. " But his throat
was too dry to utter the accusation. Besides, the most
important matter at the moment was the news about
Rose and the letter.
Price stepped back politely as the
woman stood up.
"Good morning, young man." Catherine Rose
extended her hand, unconcerned about the mud on
Jeremiah's fingers.
The colonel's widow was a handsome woman in her
forties, with broad hips, a slim waist, and full
breasts tightly bound by a faded gingham dress.
She had a generous mouth set in an oval face, and
intelligent, direct
gray eyes. On her cheek just to the right of her lips
was a tiny mole, like a punctuation mark. Her
light-brown hair was beginning to whiten.
The hand grasping Jeremiah's was neither soft nor
smooth. "Price says you want to see me?"
"Yes, Mrs. Rose. My name's Corporal
Kent-was
Recognition widened her eyes. "Henry's
orderly! He wrote about you once. And in a
highly complimentary fashion. You don't look
well," she added with a quick frown.
"I'm fine, ma'am."
"But Price said he found you unconscious."
"Just sleeping, that's all."
Skeptically, she surveyed him. The odor of
fruit wine was unmistakable. "You're
pale as death. Skinny, too."
"I was hurt in action near Atlanta."
"Good heavens, you've come all the way from
Atlanta?"
"Yes." His hand groped for the oilskin pouch. "Before
I left, your husband gave me a letter to deliver.
My home's Virginia, but I promised him
I'd bring this to you."
He handed her the pouch. Tears filled her eyes.
Then Catherine Rose seemed angry at her own
weakness. She dashed a hand against her cheek. She
began to examine the pouch as if it were some kind of
holy article. A wistful, affectionate smile
softened her face. Jeremiah could understand why Rose
had spoken highly of her.
Come to think of it, Rose had been lavish in
complimenting both-his women. While Mrs. Rose
opened the pouch, Jeremiah recalled a rare moment
of comradeship when Rose had rambled for a while about
his daughter's relationship with her stepmother.
Rose had said his wife lavished every attention on the
child of that first marriage. Yet the colonel believed
his daughter somehow considered herself Catherine's rival
for his affection. She was a good child, Rose said.
High-spirited, but with a certain reserve that
made it extremely difficult for him to ever know
what she was thinking. The rivalry between mother and
stepdaughter was only suspected, never overt or
disruptive. Catherine's affection and forbearance
prevented that.
One other detail about Mrs. Rose slipped
into his mind-the woman was a transplanted
Yankee. It was apparent after she glanced briefly
at the letter without reading it. He detected a faint
nasal quality in her voice that was distinctly
un-Southern:
"You were very kind to bring me this, Corporal Kent.
You've seen my husband recently?"
Jeremiah's forehead burned.
"Yes, ma'am. Fairly recently. He gave
me the letter at Jonesboro, before General Sherman
took Atlanta."
"Jonesboro?" She whispered it. "Jonesboro was
in late August."
"Ma'am, haven't-haven't you received any word about
him yourself?"
"Not for weeks. And we've had only scattered
reports of the disasters the armies encountered." A
tolerant smile. "Henry was never too faithful
about writing letters home. Sometimes, before he
left, I practically had to force him to pick up a
pen to write someone on business. Or when a
special occasion absolutely demanded a letter. A
birth in the family of one of his relatives. A
death-was
Her hand closed on the pouch and letter. She looked at
Jeremiah:
"Oh, dear Lord in heaven. He's dead. That's why
you're here-was
"I-was Somehow he couldn't get the words out
"That's why you've traveled so far."
Overcome, Jeremiah could only swallow and nod.
Catherine Rose dropped the letter and pouch. She
walked around him, unsteadily, but without hurrying.
At the door she called:
"Serena?"
"He wrote the letter a night or two before he took
a ball in the Jonesboro action-was Jeremiah
began.
Clutching the doorframe, Catherine caret Rose
raised her voice slightly:
"Serena? Come down!"
"comhe saved my life. After the-was Jeremiah
realized he was rambling, but he couldn't help himself.
"comaf the surgeons said they couldn't do
anything for him, he begged me to bring that letter to you. I
swore I would."
"Serena!"
She struck one frustrated blow on the jamb of the
door. Then she clenched her fist and lowered it to her
side as if it were a separate living organism she
had to fight. The ringing in Jeremiah's ears turned
to a high, windy whine. Without warning, his legs gave
out.
He started to tumble forward. With quick action, Price
could have caught him. The black didn't move.
Arms folded across his huge chest, Price watched
the young soldier fall. Jeremiah had a swift
impression of Price's eyes. Malicious.
Amused But the slave's "Oh, my!" had had an
appropriately alarmed sound.
Jeremiah's jaw slammed on the polished oak
floor. He heard an exclamation from Mrs.
Rose. Running footsteps-Serena hurrying to the
office?
The footfalls grew softer instead of louder. The
roar in his ears drowned them out. Gasping, he
flopped over on his back, his mind a jumble of
frantic thoughts:
Sherman's on the way.
That black bastard's got my Enfield.
She'll be too upset to pay any mind.
But I've got to warn-
Darkness cut off the rest.
The Women
HE WOKE AT TWILIGHT, in a bedroom
at the second floor front.
He lay awhile in the high bed, reflecting that perhaps
he was beginning to mend. His belly didn't ache quite so
badly. The ear trouble and dizziness had left him.
Best of all, he felt clean.
His filthy uniform had disappeared. He wore a
man's flannel nightshirt which because of his height
reached only to his knees. A flush burned his
cheeks when he realized someone had undressed and
washed him and rebandaged his leg wound with new,
spotless linen. He hoped it had been one of the
nigra women he'd seen around the place.
Downstairs, voices murmured. He swung his
legs off the edge of the bed, stretching luxuriously.
He was stiff. Still a mite feverish, too. But he
was astonished to discover he was hungry.
When he stood up, barefoot on the smooth, pegged
floor, he felt a familiar pressure. He
located the chamber pot in a corner. The
china surface was decorated with a hand-painted
scroll bearing the words A Salute to Old
Spoons.
Spoons? He studied the pot, then recalled the
man to whom the word referred. He laughed for the first time
in longer than he could remember.
He picked up the pot, lifted the lid and looked
inside. On the bottom, the artist had enameled a
man's
portrait. Jeremiah recognized the puffy
cheeks, drooping mustache, and cocked eye of the
infamous Beast Butler, the military governor of
conquered New Orleans. Butler had earned the
South's hatred with a regulation specifying that any
New Orleans gentlewoman caught showing
disrespect to the occupying troops would be dealt with as
if she were a prostitute. Sometimes the Beast was
called Old Cockeye. He'd also been called
Spoons because he'd reportedly plundered silverware
from the city's finer houses. Jeremiah replaced the
pot on the floor, pulled up ,his nightshirt,
and cheerfully pissed on old Spoons.
He was just replacing the lid when he heard steps in
the hall. Hastily he clambered back into bed. A
knock was followed by a respectful,
"Sir?"
"I'm awake. Come in."
A small, fragile black woman appeared.
She was barely five feet tall, with wrists no
thicker than both his thumbs put together. She must have
been seventy, but the eyes in the dark, lined face
sparkled. She glanced at the white streak in his
hair as she set a mug containing a steaming drink on
the table beside the bed.
"You feeling any better, sir?"
"Much, thank you. By the way, my name's Jeremiah.
Jeremiah Kent."
A nod. "Miz Catherine told me. I'm
Maum Isabella." She touched the mug. "I
brought you this to see if you could keep something down."
"Smells first-rate. What is it?"
"One of my toddies. Peach brandy laced with white
sugar. If it sets well, I've got ham in the
kitchen. Ham and hominy."
Jeremiah sipped the sweet beverage and found the first
taste not only bearable but delicious. He wiped his
lips with his wrist and smiled at the diminutive
black woman who stood with her hands folded at the
waist of her patched skirt. There was nothing servile
about her
speech or demeanor; no pretense of the kind he'd
seen Price indulge in. The woman obviously
occupied a position of importance in the house and
knew it.
"That's damn-that's very good, Maum-was
"Isabella, sir."
He gestured at his nightshirt. "Who fixed me
up this way?"
"Miz Catherine did. Soon after you passed out
downstairs."
Blushing, he said, "You mean she didn't go
to pieces when she learned about the colonel?"
The old woman shook her head. "Miz Catherine
knew the risks when he went off to serve. She's
mighty grieved, of course. So's everybody on the
place- excepting two or three bad niggers."
He presumed Price was included in that last
group.
"Miz Catherine's a mighty strong lady-for a
Yankee woman," Maum Isabella added,
allowing herself a small, wry smile, "Also, we have
a house to run. Chores to do. She allowed herself
"bout a half hour of crying, that's all. She'll
be up to see you soon, I imagine. Serena too."
The mention of the younger woman seemed to carry
less enthusiasm than the reference to Mrs. Rose.
Then, sympathetically:
"You must have seen some hard fighting."
He didn't understand the reason for the question, so he only
nodded.
"What I mean-was A frail hand pointed. "You're
mighty young to be turning gray."
"Oh, this-was He ran his fingers through the white streak.
"That's from Chickamauga. A Minie ball
knocked my cap off-grazed the top of my head.
The ball was almost spent, so all I got was a good
thump. Guess it did something to the hair, though. A
surgeon said it would grow back the right color, but it
hasn't."
"I see." Her curiosity satisfied, she started
for the
door. "Well, you want anything, just stomp on the
floor and someone will come up right quick. Oh, I
nearly forgot. Tomorrow morning-was
"Thanksgiving."
"We don't have a lot to say thanks for this year,"
the little black woman declared. "The colonel's
gone. Those Yanks are coming out from Atlanta."
"So the word's gotten around?"
"Yes, sir. I heard about what you told
Price. By now most everyone on the place knows."
"Maum Isabella, may I ask you a question that
might not be any of my business?"
"You can surely ask, Mr. Jeremiah. I'll
decide about a reply when I hear the question."
"Where'd that buck come from? Price, I mean. Has
he always been on the plantation?"
"No. The colonel bought him five years ago in
a batch of half a dozen niggers Mr. Samples
owned. Mr. Samples had the next farm over from this
one. He went to his reward very suddenly. Had no
kin to take over the property, so the colonel
picked up part of the acreage and some of his people too.
All good people except that Price. He came from
Louisiana when he was young. He was raised by a man
who treated him bad. Maybe that explains why he
acts mean. But it doesn't excuse it. I've
always had a queer feeling about Price."
"What sort of feeling?"
"He could have been raised in a pig lot or a
palace and he'd still have come out mean." She smiled.
"The Yanks don't have a corner on meanness, you
know. Fact is, there ain't a single group in all
God's creation dares claim their baskets are
free of bad peaches."
"Price sure strikes me as one."
Maum Isabella didn't disagree. "Most of the
niggers on the place can't abide him. There are a
few who encourage him on the sly. They like to see
him get away
with being uppity. Miz Catherine should have sold him off
long ago. Well, I got things to do. I expect
the mistress will be here soon. We'll have dinner tomorrow
afternoon, late. In the morning there's to be a
memorial service in the parlor. For the colonel.
Most everybody'll be there."
The sentence implied a question about his presence.
Jeremiah nodded, his dark eyes shining in the candle
glow. The toddy had warmed and relaxed him. The
scent of roses and dahlias drifting in from the
bluish dark was like a balm after the stenches of war:
pus; dirt; offal; powder; blood-
"So will I. The colonel was a good man. He
saved my life."
At last Maum Isabella looked as if she
approved of him.
"I'm happy to hear you'll be able to pay your
respects," she said as she opened the door. She
marched out as Jeremiah reached for the toddy.
He was incredibly content. He savored not
only the drink but the comforting feeling of being halfway
well again. Well; clean; and in a safe haven.
A temporarily safe haven, he reminded himself.
Out there in the Georgia dark, Sherman's soldiers
were marching relentlessly. Rosewood might lie
directly in their path.
He finished the toddy. He couldn't pretend he
wasn't frightened by the possibility of Sherman's
approach. But the idea brought a touch of pleasure
as well. After too long a time, he might again be
called to do something worthwhile in this war.
ii
Catherine Rose looked in about twenty minutes
later.
She was dressed more formally than when he'd first
met her. She'd changed from her faded gingham to a
full-skirted black gown with rustling underlayers that
bulked the skirt into the fashionable hooped shape.
Her bodice looked different than before. Her
breasts were pushed up higher; were, more pointed and
prominent. He assumed she was wearing one of those
steel-boned corsets. The kind he'd seen in his
mother's empty room in Lexington one time, and stolen
in to touch with a feeling of experimentation and acute
embarrassment.
Even though Jeremiah was eighteen, his knowledge of the
ultimate details of a woman's life were
limited. In the army he'd often bragged* about
visiting a lady of easy virtue when he was only
fifteen. It was the typical young soldier's lie.
He was totally innocent-and ashamed of it. Now the
sight of Mrs. Rose's figure generated a
lewd excitement all the more thrilling because it was
shameful.
Clad in black as she was, the widow's only
concession to her duties as mistress of a household
was a lace-edged apron of white lawn. Even the
heavy crocheted net holding the large chignon at
the back of her head was black. She'd dressed her
hair since he'd last seen her.
"Corporal Kent." She greeted him with a
small, strained smile.
"Evening, ma'am."
"Maum Isabella reports you're feeling
somewhat better." She stood at the foot of the bed,
composed but pale.
"Thank you, I am. Please call me
Jeremiah."
"Of course. I'm truly sorry you had to suffer so
much to bring that letter to Rosewood."
"Why, that's all forgotten, ma'am," he fibbed.
"You're the one who-was Caught in an awkward
trap, he didn't want to finish.
The mole beside her mouth lifted as she tried to smile
with greater warmth. Her eyes were puffy. Otherwise
she was in perfect control. He admired her
courage.
She finished the sentence for him:
"comwho has suffered?, I'll admit I did let
down for a little while. But the truth is, even before you
arrived, I was beginning to think something had happened
to Henry. He usually forced himself to write a letter every
three or four weeks. A few lines. But I
hadn't received one in two and a half months."
She drew a cane chair to the bed and sat down.
He smelled the fruit wine again; strongly.
"Besides there's no time for excessive indulgence in
grief With all those stories of Yanks loose
around Milledgeville, we must get busy. I
need to make a list of what we should hide--food,
furnishings, valuables-in case Sherman does come
this way."
"I want to help any way I can," he said,
suddenly self-conscious about being alone with a woman in
this flower-scented bedroom. It hardly
mattered that the woman was at least twice his age.
"I'll be out of bed before you know it."
"Very kind of you, Jeremiah. I appreciate your
willingness. I'll feel free to call on you. Some
of the bucks on the place may not stay."
"Not stay? Why?"
"Judge Claypool's boy, Floyd-he came
over yesterday comhe told me a great many nigras
are running away from their masters to travel with
Sherman's army."
An awkward pause. Jeremiah felt compelled
to say something more about her husband. He struggled-not at
ease with sentiments appropriate to such a moment:
"Whatever happens, you must let me help. I
wouldn't be drawing a breath if it wasn't for the
colonel. I'm truly sorry he-was
A red-knuckled hand lifted:
"Not necessary, Jeremiah. Your feelings for him are
evident. And your loyalty. You got here."
Her eyes focused on the gallery, and the dark.
"Henry was an excellent husband. I liked him from
the first time
he came to tea at Christ College. That's where
I was teaching when we met. I was an instructor in
the classics. I'm originally from
Connecticut."
"Yes, he told me."
"I came down to Georgia to accept a position
at the female institute at Montpelier when I
was twenty-two. Henry had recently-had lost his
first wife-was Her voice trailed off. "His
aunt was also on the faculty at the institute. She
introduced us. She was an Episcopalian, but
Henry was a Congregationalist, as I am. I never
regretted my decision to marry him. Or to bring up
his child."
Another pause. Then she asked how Henry Rose
had died.
He described the circumstances in a guarded way,
emphasizing the colonel's heroism and omitting the
more gruesome details. He made no mention of the
blood, the filth, the brutality of the field
hospital-nor of Rose's despair about the
course of the war. Catherine nodded from time to time.
Once he thought he saw tears in her eyes.
She asked about her husband's body. Again he
resorted to partial honesty. He cited the confusion that
always followed a battle and took the blame for not
keeping track of Rose's remains. He avoided
any reference to the heap onto which those
canvas-covered bodies were dumped one after another.
He tried to finish with something positive:
"He was thinking of you right to the end, ma'am. Never a
word about himself. Just about you. How you'd need
assistance-was
A small sigh. "It appears we will. It pains
me to say it, but over the last few months I've
noticed a less-than change in the attitude of a
few of the nigras. They still do their duties, but
they've become-was She searched for the proper term:
"comimpudent."
He saw no reason to skirt the issue any
longer:
"Is Price one of them?"
"The worst, I'm afraid."
"Well, then, I should tell you what I really think
happened to my musket."
Before he could begin, the door opened. A girl
walked in.
Her dress was as black as her stepmother's. But her
bright red hair framing pale cheeks shone a fire,
so that like she hardly seemed in mourning.
The girl was taller than Catherine, with pale blue
eyes and a splendid figure. There was an astonishing
perfection about her features. Together with her
delicately white skin, it gave her an almost
angelic air. But the liveliness of her eyes
flawed the effect.
She came quickly to the bedside, her skirts gathered
up in her hands. The older woman turned:
"I thought perhaps you'd forgotten us, Serenaddin*in
"No, not at all," the girl answered, ignoring the
hint of criticism in Catherine's remark.
Serena Rose studied Jeremiah. She was a
lovely creature, but plainly not the older
woman's child.
"I do hope you're comfortable, Mr. Kent," she
remarked with a smile that struck him as sweetly
polite rather than sincere.
"Fine, thank you."
He knew the girl was two years older than he
was; twenty. The difference seemed an abyss. And
even before he'd spoken his three-word answer, she
glided to a wall mirror to study her hair.
Somehow that angered him.
m
"You could be a bit more cordial to our guest, my
dear."
Serena spun around, her smile still ingenuous. "Was
I being otherwise, Catherine? I'm so
sorry."
She was hard to read. Reserved; every move studied.
While Catherine's politeness masked feelings she
felt it might be unseemly to reveal, Serena's
behavior apparently concealed a lack of any
feeling whatever. Or, if she did have feelings, she
kept them deeply hidden. He began to suspect
she'd come up to the bedroom solely because it was an
obligation.
"I apologize if I was rude to you, Mr.
Kent," she said. "The news about Papa, and all this
talk about the Yankees-it's quite upsetting."
"I can certainly understand-was
"But now we have a trustworthy man to help us,"
Catherine said.
"That's reassuring," Serena replied, though a
flicker of her eyes suggested she doubted man was
an appropriate term for Jeremiah. He was both
repelled by the girl's cool manner and attracted
by her physical beauty-of which she was quite conscious.
She stood so that he had a clear view of her
figure-her bosom-in profile. In a
perfunctory way, she asked:
"Where do you come from, Mr. Kent?"
"I was serving with the Sixty-third
Virginia until I was reassigned as your father's
orderly on the division staff."
"Virginia," Serena repeated. "That's a mighty
long way from Georgia."
He decided he might as well get some of the
details out of the way. He told them a little about his
family. First his mother, still in the endangered Shenandoah.
Then his brother Gideon, captured in the fire
fight that slew Jeb Stuart at Yellow Tavern.
No, he replied in response to a question from
Catherine, there was absolutely no word of
Gideon's whereabouts, and he was worried. Men were
known to be dying by the hundreds in the Northern
prisons, now that
The Women
Grant had put a stop to the exchange of
prisoners order to further deplete the South's
manpower.
The account of his middle brother was only slightly
less grim. For a few moments he spoke glowingly
of Mart's sunny nature; his fondness for games;
the memorable quality of his drawings. Then he told
them Matt had been-and presumably still was-on a
blockade runner, a fast, Liverpool-built
steam vessel slipping back and forth between the
Bermudas and Wilmington on the Cape Fear
River. But Matt's last, badly spelled letter
had been delivered to Lexington over eight months
ago. There'd been no news since. Either Matt
hadn't written again, or a letter from Fan with news of
him had failed to reach Jeremiah. Whatever the
circumstances, there was a question mark after Matt's name
nearly as ominous as the one after Gideon's.
Jeremiah concluded with a brief mention of the other
branch of the family: his father Jephtha, from whom his
mother was divorced, and who was now a Methodist pastor
again-this time in the Northern wing of the divided church up
in New York. Jephtha had originally been an
itinerant parson in Virginia before the Methodists
split over the slave issue. Then he'd been a
newspaperman on The New York Union.
"There's at least one more in the family up north, but
I know even less about him. His disname's Louis.
He has a wife and a small boy, and he's a
rich man. Owns that newspaper Jephtha worked for,
plus part of a steelworks, some kind of cotton
factory, and a publishing company in Boston called
Kent and Son. I saw a book from the company in
your office, Mrs. Rose."
Serena's blue eyes showed greater interest:
"So the Northern relatives are the ones with money,
Mr. Kent?"
"Yes, Miss Serena, I'm afraid that's true
for the present. Eventually, though, my brothers and
I-was
Before he could finish, and tell them he and Matt
and Gideon might one day be wealthy in their own right,
Catherine interrupted:
"I think-we've taxed Jeremiah quite long enough."
Serena pouted. He'd piqued her curiosity. She
was gazing at him as if trying to guess the ending of his
unfinished sentence.
"He was kind enough to describe how your father died-was
Catherine said.
There was no response. If the girl felt any
emotion she never showed it. Jeremiah was fascinated
by her good looks, but he began to think he didn't like
her much as a person.
"comand we were discussing the attitude of some of the
nigras when you came in." Catherine swung back
to Jeremiah. "I hate to tire you further. But you
mentioned something about a musket?"
"The same one Price talked about in the office,"
Jeremiah said, nodding. "I slept all last
night on the creek bank where he found
me. When I woke up, the musket was gone. My
cartridge box, too. Your nigra claimed someone
else must have come along and taken it. But I'm
pretty certain he took it."
Catherine frowned.
"I think he hid it," Jeremiah went on more
firmly. "I don't believe it's safe to have a
nigra you call impudent hiding a gun when the
Yanks are on the way.
The discussion sparked a combative look in Serena's
eyes:
"Now let me get this clear. Price claimed he
didn't take the musket?"
"That's correct, Miss Serena. He said some
nigra who fish down there must have pilfered it."
"And you have no evidence one way or the other?"
He admitted that was true.
Catherine Rose chewed her lip. "I hesitate
to make an issue without proof. If the Yanks
arrive we'll need the support of every nigra on the
place. Price has a
mean streak in him. But it's usually directed at the
other slaves."
"He's been saucy to you lately, Catherine,"
Serena flared.
"I know. But I still don't think he'd do us any
harm."
"Mrs. Rose, I beg to disagree." Jeremiah
struggled to sit up straighter in bed, ignoring the
way his nightshirt hiked over his knees, much
to Serena's amusement. "I think that buck should be
questioned until he admits the theft."
"So do I!"'* Serena exclaimed, the candles
putting little reflections in her pupils.
Again Catherine negated the idea with a shake of her
head:
"We have always conducted the affairs of Rosewood in
a humane and Christian way. Right or wrong,
we'll continue to do so. At this difficult time, I
won't have the nigras losing their trust in me because of
Price."
"I heard most of them hate him," Jeremiah
responded.
Catherine sighed. "Maum Isabella's been
talking again. She's right. But there are delicate
balances on a plantation such as this one. If I
accuse Price, he'll never admit the theft because
there's no evidence against him. To force a confession,
I'd have to punish him. Then the nigras might
switch their loyalties-even if only
briefly. I'd become their enemy. I don't
want to be their enemy with Sherman on the loose."
"But Catherine-was Serena protested.
"Child," the older woman broke in, her voice
soft but strong, "I have the final say in this. Even
granted Price is lying, I don't intend
to provoke more turmoil. We'll give him the
benefit of the doubt and stay alert. That's enough for the time
being."
Serena stamped her foot. "Stay alert till he
breaks in one night and shoots us!"
"Serena, don't argue."
Red-cheeked, the girl blazed back, "Yes, I
will! You're too easy on the niggers! Mr.
Kent's warned us, but you won't pay any attention.
You're always so blasted anxious to have everyone think
you're a saint!" The color draining from her face,
Catherine whispered, "I try to behave in a
Christian way."
"When the neighbors are here! They never see that .
blackberry wine you're always-was "Be quiet!"
Catherine stared at Serena until the younger woman
looked away.
Jeremiah was embarrassed yet morbidly
fascinated by the sudden display of hostility
between the mother and stepdaughter. Sensing his discomfort,
Catherine stood up.
"It's no disrespect to Jeremiah if we don't
press the issue with Price. We'll be careful."
Careful isn't enough, he thought. still saw that bucks
eyes down by the river-you didn't.
Serena refused to surrender: "We should do more than
that. We should force Price to admit he's lying.
Whip him!"
"still will hear absolutely nothing more on the
subject." Catherine said it with such vehemence that
Serena looked as if she'd been struck. She
opened her mouth to retort, then noted the fierceness of
Catherine's gaze and whirled away. Jeremiah
thought the older woman's prudence was ill-advised.
But it wasn't his place to enter into a family feud
whose nature and origins he didn't understand.
Trying to take the sting out of the confrontation, Catherine
walked over and reached for her stepdaughter's arm.
Serena turned again, drawing back. For a moment the
women faced one another.
Finally Serena stepped aside, her cheeks pink,
her face far from angelic.
Catherine walked toward the door. Serena
hesitated, then followed.
"Good night, Jeremiah," Catherine said in a
strained voice. "Maum Isabella will look in
presently to see whether you need anything."
"I am feeling a wee bit hungry-was
"Then I"ll send her up immediately."
Opening the door, she reached for Serena's arm a
second time. The girl gasped as the older woman
literally dragged her out.
Jeremiah sank back in bed, disturbed. In his
opinion, Catherine Rose's ideas about handling the
situation with Price were all wrong. He'd need
to be watchful. Very watchful.
And those two women-they were certainly a puzzlement.
They might be related by marriage, but they clearly
weren't related by temperament.
Settling himself against the pillows, he inhaled the
sweet scent of the blossoms outside the house. Just
what kind of hornet's nest had he blundered into on
this plantation?
Shadow of the Enemy
"MR. KENT?"'
The whisper brought him bolt upright in bed,
surprised and terrified. Then the terror vanished as
he realized who had spoken. But bewilderment lingered.
The candles had gone out. From the angle of the
November moonlight falling across the gallery, he
judged the hour to be very late. Serena Rose was
kneeling beside the bed, her face no more Chan a blur
in the silver-blue gloom.
She repeated his name. He mumbled, "I'm
awake," although he was still drowsy. Turning on his
side, he could feel the warmth of her breath on the
back of his hand.
"Catherine doesn't know I'm in here. You won't
say anything?"
"Won't say-?" He fought a yawn; knuckled his
eyes. Answered more coherently: "No, 'course
not." His
"I wanted to tell you I went down to the cabins."
Her voice was low, the words rushed. "I asked
Leon to help me. Leon's a buck who was born
at Rosewood, he's trustworthy. We talked
to Price." Her tone hardened. "I ordered half
a dozen laid on him out by the burial ground."
"Laid-?" His lethargy left him. "You mean the
whip?"
She nodded. "We don't use it often, but we have
one."
"You did the right thing," he said with conviction.
His mouth had that bloodless, cruel look
for a moment "Did Price confess?"
"Not on your life! He just took the whipping without a
word. But you should have seen the way he looked at me!"
She clutched his wrist. He felt something wet on
her fingers when they brushed the cuff of his nightshirt.
"He stole the musket, Mr. Kent. I know he
did!"
"What if your stepmother discovers that you-?"
"She won't. Leon won't say anything
to Catherine, I forced him to promise. I doubt
Price will say anything either. He's scared of
me," she hurried on. "He understands I'm not
soft the way Catherine is. And tattling, that's not his
style. He'll wait for a chance to get back at
me."
"Then you took a risk you shouldn't have taken. I'd
have been on my feet soon, I could have-was
"I didn't want to wait a minute longer. I
had to find out whether he was up to something. Now I'm
sure he is. Catherine's wrong and you're right. But
now there are two of us to keep a sharp eye on him.
Catherine's too trusting, Mr. Kent. She still
believes some of those pretty words they taught her in
church when she was a girl. She doesn't realize
how that nigger hates us!"
Her fingers closed tighter on his wrist. The tips
still had that curious wet feel.
"I just wanted to say you're right-and I'm glad
you're here to look after us."
He didn't quite realize what had happened until
it was over. She came off her knees and leaned
near, planting a quick kiss on his cheek. For a
moment her breast brushed his forearm. Under the coverlet
his body responded quickly and automatically.
He could see very little of her face in that moment when it
was close to his--half of it was in darkness, half a
pale blur. In the moonlight her red hair glowed
almost white.
With a rustle of gathered skirts, she scrambled to her
feet. Why the devil was she so interested in him all
of a " sudden? he wondered. The first time she'd come
into his room she'd hardly paid any attention to him.
Why had she reversed herself? Was it because she and her
stepmother were at odds? Because she wanted to win him to her
side?
Serena squeezed his hand. "I'd better scat out of
here. I think Catherine's asleep, but I'm not
sure. Her room's down the hall just beyond mine. I
know some of the house niggers are still up. If one of them
sees me, by this time tomorrow people all over the
county will be calling me a scarlet woman." She
uttered a low laugh, sounding more amused than
worried.
He had no time to say anything as she hurried
away. The door clicked shut before he knew it.
He was still mightily confused-downright stunned, in
fact-by the swift secret visit. Of course
he was gratified that the girl had swung over to his
side of the argument about Price. But she'd indeed
taken a scandalous chance comrisked compromising her
reputation-by slipping into his room. Apparently
she wasn't afraid of such gambles.
Serena's eagerness to punish the black bothered him,
too.
Not that Price didn't deserve punishment. He
did-if only as a warning. What troubled
Jeremiah was her tone of voice during parts of the
conversation. She'd sounded as if she'd actually
enjoyed ordering the man lashed. Puzzling over her
curious nature, he drifted into sleep.
When he woke in the morning, he happened to glance
at the sleeve of his nightshirt. He caught his
breath.
He gazed at the brown stain on the cuff and
realized why Serena's hand had felt wet.
Leon hadn't been the only one who had touched the
whip.
He spent ten minutes naked in front of the wash
stand, scrubbing at the stain. He couldn't get it all
out because the blood had dried. A telltale blotch
remained. Not too noticeable, he hoped.
He poured the discolored water into the chamber pot and
hastily put the lid in place with a hand that shook just
a little. He'd have whipped Price dispassionately,
for the sake of prudence. She'd apparently whipped
him for pleasure.
Lord! An angel face like that-what was behind it? Part
of him was drawn toward discovering the answer. Another
part warned he'd be into dangerous depths if he
did.

"O God, our help in ages past, "Our hope
for years to come-was
Jeremiah moved his lips, unfamiliar with the words of
disthe hymn sung with such lusty confidence by the people in the
sitting room of Rosewood just after eleven o'clock that
same Thanksgiving morning.
Outside, a brilliant sun shone. During the
past hour, some twenty white neighbors had
arrived. The men were all elderly, the women
of varying ages. Dressed in Sunday clothes, the
visitors stood unselfconsciously among the
plantation's blacks who filled the rest of the room.
More of the slaves packed the entrance hall and part of the
front piazza near the main door.
Even Price had come to pay tribute to the departed
colonel. Jeremiah could see him just outside the
sitting room arch, bellowing the hymn as if what
Serena had described last night had never
happened.
"Our shelter from the stormy blast, "And our eternal
home."
Noting Price's erect posture and cheerful
expression, Jeremiah wondered if he'd dreamed
the nocturnal visit
Serena had again dressed like her stepmother-in black
crepe. As the group sang, she played the
London-made pianoforte. For a number of reason
Jeremiah was decidedly uncomfortable in the midst
of the gathering.
Just after he'd washed out the blood, Maum
Isabella had delivered a pair of the colonel's
mien trousers and a luxurious white silk shirt, as
well as underclothing. Everything was too small. He
looked and felt like a bumpkin in the
ill-fitting garments. Neither did he like wearing a
dead man's clothes.
And before the service, he'd been required to meet
all the guests and repeat an involved series of
falsehoods about his wounds and fictitious discharge.
Grave-faced people, among them a couple named
Jesperson, had bobbed their heads sympathetically in
response to his romanticized description of
Henry Roje's death.
"Under the shadow of Thy throne, "Still may we dwell
secure-was
Pretending to sing, he found his mind returning to the
crosscurrents that seemed to be aswirl in the
house. There was a curious, secretive quality
about them. For instance, while standing at Catherine's
elbow and speaking with two of the visitors, he'd
picked up the unmistakable tang of blackberry
wine again. If she'd drink before company came, she
was under greater tension than she permitted others to see.
The right hand of the Congregational pastor, the Reverend
Emory Pettus, arced back and forth as he led the
hymn to its loud climax. Pettus was an
immense, paunchy man in a warm-looking black
alpaca coat with a secession rosette in the
lapel. He kept his eyes on the ceiling
and sang in a bellowing baritone:
"Sufficient is Thine arm alone, "And our
defense is-was
Abruptly Serena lifted her fingers from the
keyboard and turned toward the open front windows
nearby. Her net-bound chignon glowed even with the
morning sun muted by the gently stirring lace
curtains.
The various singers straggled on to a weak finish.
Pettus frowned as Catherine took her hand from the
hymnal she'd been sharing with the minister.
"Serena, why did you stop?"
The girl pointed outdoors. "I heard the bell
ring. Twice."
"Nonsense." Catherine smiled frostily. "No
one would ring the bell and disturb-was
She was interrupted by a commotion on the piazza. A
white-haired old fellow with palsy tottered to a
window, mumbling complaints. Outside, a black
shouted:
"Miz Catherine? Buggy comin' up the lane!"
"I told you someone rang the bell!" Serena was
vindicated.
Catherine ignored her, looking concerned. A slave
boy of fourteen or fifteen slipped through
the crowd in the sitting room, an apologetic
expression on his face.
"Who is it, Zeph?" Catherine asked.
"Marse Claypool, ma'am."
The one referred to as the judge? Jeremiah
wondered. Catherine had already commented on the
surprising absence of the Claypools.
Jeremiah heard a rattle of wheels and the sound of
hoofs scattering small stones. The nigras
outdoors shouted questions as the vehicle halted. The
horses of the other rigs pulled up in front began
to neigh and stamp. Catherine hurried to one of the open
windows, thrust the curtains aside, and stuck her
head out, not a little annoyed:
"Theodore, we're right in the middle of the service!"
"My profound apologies." The man had a
wheezy voice; sounded out of breath. "I'd have been
here sooner, but I was waiting for Floyd to come back
from another trip to Milledgeville. Those folks
indoors-all of you-better pay attention! The
Yanks are in the capital!"
The guests all began talking at once. The
slaves murmured among themselves. Over the noise,
Catherine called:
"Are you sure?"
"Positive. The first of them arrived day before
yesterday. Two whole corps of Union
infantry, the Fourteenth and the Twentieth.
Sherman's with their commander, General Slocum."
Absolute pandemonium then. A portly woman
near Jeremiah gasped, closed her eyes, and
started to faint Her male companion tried to catch
her, failed, and knelt beside her, chafing her wrists
and whispering, "God preserve us. God preserve
us."
Jeremiah shoved his way to the windows to hear the rest:
"comwdn't believe what's happening in
Milledgeville, Catherine. The Yanks are
tearing up the railroad tracks! Heating the ties
and bending "em around trees. Sherman's hairpins,
that's their clever little name for 'em. Floyd said he
saw soldiers destroying books from the state
library. And Secretary of State Burnett's
wife-was
The unseen man paused to suck in another breath as
the guests and the blacks fell silent.
comshe had to bury the state seal under her house and
hide documents from the legislature in her pig
sty."
Catherine leaned halfway out the window.
"In heaven's name why?"
"Because that infernal Sherman has issued orders that his
men can forage liberally on the country. Those
were his exact words-'forage liberally!" Of course the
sanctimonious devil's also announcing that he
hasn't authorized his men to enter homes or molest
citizens unless there's guerrilla resistance."
"But the Home Guards are mobilized!" someone
exclaimed.
The judge snorted. "Precisely. That
qualifies as resistance. So Sherman looks the
other way while his scalawags rob private
dwellings and burn farms and plantations where the owners
have tried to hide some of their crops. Evidently
t"s guerrilla resistance, too! Believe me,
Floyd saw barns and gins being put to the torch-
houses being gutted in Milledgeville-he talked
to one family whose whole place was torn down! They
had to take refuge in an overturned boxcar in the
rail yards."
Jeremiah pressed up beside Catherine and lifted the
curtain. In the drive he saw a bony,
perspiring old man seated in a two-wheeled hooded
chaise. Red dust covered the man's frock coat
and trousers.
"Can't the militia stop them?" Jeremiah asked.
"Old codgers like me? Boys? A few
cavalrymen?" Claypool harrumphed. "I doubt
it."
"Are they headed this way?"
"Well, they seem to be after rail junctions and the
larger towns, so I expect they are. They'll
probably come right past here on the way to Millen."
Consternation again.
The man whose wife had fainted helped her to her
feet, muttering apologies to Catherine. She
didn't hear, standing with one hand shielding her
half-closed eyes. The man and his wife edged through
the crowd toward the hall. Reverend Pettus
announced that they'd better end the service and
return to their homes at once.
The words were superfluous. A small stampede had
already started, guests jabbering and pushing the blacks
aside to get to the buggies and phaetons outside.
Jeremiah
was suddenly thankful he still had the sheathed knife
tucked in his boot. Sherman's shadow was growing
longer. Touching Rosewood now.
Still, he had a hard time believing the Yanks would
destroy undefended private property
on any large scalest Surely they couldn't be that
dishonorable. The outbreak in Milledgeville must be
an isolated case. Even the razing of Atlanta
had had some strategic purpose. But the incidents
the dusty old man in the chaise described had none
at all, unless you counted the kind of thing Jeremiah
was witnessing at this moment: the creation of utter panic
among defenseless civilians.
One phaeton was already gone, clattering down the
lane in a cloud of sunlit dust. The driver
lashed his team as though Satan were three feet behind.
"Catherine? What are we going to do?"
Jeremiah and the older woman both turned at the
sound of Serena's voice. The girl didn't
appear worried, merely curious.
Judge Claypool came struggling in against the
tide of the exodus, talking first to one person, then
another:
"comswear to Jesus-oh! Excuse my language,
Reverend comx's all true! They've got a flock
of runaway niggers dogging "em wherever they go.
Disloyal, disreputable niggers, every one!"
The judge's announcement in the hall caused
another, somewhat more restrained stir, this time among the
blacks. Claypool fanned back his
dusty coat to display a bolstered horse pistol.
"Thank God we have none of that kind around here. If
we did they'd be candidates for shooting. And I
don't mean by Yanks."
Serena prodded her stepmother:
"Well, Catherine?"
""If they come," Jeremiah said abruptly,
"we'll stand up to them."
"Really?" Serena inquired. "How?"
I
Shadow of the Enemy
"War or no war, they have no right to ruin private
property. We'll make them understand that."
Serena's blue eyes grew amused. "My, you
certainly have faith in the decency of Yankees."
The sarcasm rankled. He had to believe the
cruelty of the battlefield couldn't spread
into civilian territory. He had nothing else
to believe in any longer. It was his last article of
faith. He tried to justify it:
"I just don't think any army would go on burning and
looting that way. Sherman's men have probably done
it around Milledgeville because that's the capital."
Catherine took encouragement from the words:
"I'm sure he's right, Serena.
Provisioning an army off enemy land's one thing.
Ruining civilian property is another. They
certainly won't continue-was
"Don't be too damn sure, Catherine,"'*
Judge Clay-pool warned.
"By God, we won't stand for it," Jeremiah
blurted. "It's against all the laws of decency!"
Someone laughed.
He spun, his eyes locking with those of Price.
The slave's face was blank again. But Jeremiah
was positive Price was the culprit. A young
woman with her hair covered by a bandana was backing
away from him. And Maum Isabella was staring at
him too, lips pinched tight together.
Jeremiah glared at the slave but drew no
response. Price's pupils might have been
brown stones.
A few remaining guests clustered around Catherine,
offering apologies and empty condolences before they
departed. Jeremiah drew Serena aside:
"We'd better get your stepmother working on her
list."
"What list?"
"The one she mentioned last night. Covering anything
on the place that ought to be hidden. Are there
firearms in the house?"
"No, none. Papa took everything." With her back
to Price, who hadn't changed his position in the
hall, she whispered, "There's a musket somewhere-was
She seemed to be goading him.
"We'll do the best we can without it," Jeremiah
declared, even though the lack of the Enfield left him
feeling less than whole.
The vehicles belonging to the guests rattled down to the
highway one after another. Maum Isabella had
put grief behind her and was shooing some of the nigras through
the house toward their cabins. At last Price
turned and strolled off in the same direction.
Dust boiled through the open windows of the sitting room,
billowing the curtains and settling on the polished
wood of the pianoforte. A last visitor tipped a
table and spilled back issues of the Southern
Literary Messenger in his haste to depart. As the
copies plopped on the carpet, Jeremiah heard
faint laughter again, then Maum Isabella's
voice, loud and-scolding.
"Jeremiah?"
He turned to Catherine.
"Serena asked a very pertinent question. We must plan
what we're going to do if the enemy comes."
Remembering the laughter, Jeremiah thought, He's
already here. .
Warnings
THANKSGIVING DINNER was a
tense, joyless affair.
Jeremiah suspected it might turn out that way the
moment Catherine appeared, bringing her cut glass
decanter of blackberry wine out in the open-right to the
table. As she set it down she murmured an
excuse about needing a "medicinal tonic" after the
strain of the service and Judge Claypool's
arrival with the bad news from Milledgeville.
Maum Isabella hadn't stinted on preparing a
good meal. But Jeremiah and the two women barely
touched their food. Unpleasant questions seemed to come
up almost at once. Would Sherman actually reach the
Louisville district? Would his troops behave as
badly as they had in the capital? Jeremiah gave
encouraging answers, as much to reassure himself as
to reassure them.
Catherine inquired about his initiation into the war. The
words he used in reply automatically carried his
thoughts to a place he preferred to forget:
To a hillside in the northwest part of the state. In
September twilight a year ago, he'd
gone up that hillside with his bayonet fixed and his
palms sweating, ducking and starting at his first
exposure to the whine of Minie balls.
The Confederates had been trying to take a position
held by the Yank general, Pap Thomas. After the
battle, Thomas came to be called The Rock
because his
lines held and blew back charge after rebel charge
while, behind them, routed Rosecrans fled for
Chattanooga. Jeremiah narrated an account of the
engagement, but said nothing about how terrified he'd
been at first.
He described the ball that had grazed his scalp and
produced the streak of white hair. He told them
how he'd shot his first Yank-the first one he was
certain he'd killed, that is. But he didn't
mention the disturbing feelings he'd experienced watching
the young man fall.
He'd shot as he was supposed to shoot-obeying
orders comyet his reaction to the hit had been a kind
of cold joy. He tried not to remember the joy.
It didn't fit with his concept of war honorably
conducted.
He hated to admit there was an aspect of his
nature, slowly strengthened as he gained
proficiency with firearms, that could be termed ruthless.
At times he even denied the trait's existence. But
it was there, and he guarded against giving in to it.
Once in a while he did succumb. Before escaping
from the farmer with the pitchfork, he'd struck the back of the
man's neck and felt absolutely no pity.
Nor had he experienced any qualms about the
whipping of Price.
While Jeremiah talked, he noticed Serena
picking at her cloved ham and glancing around the
room in a restless way. She was certainly a
creature of moods. Last night, she'd declared she
was his ally. This morning he seemed to bore her.
He concluded that her night visit must have been
solely an act of defiance directed against her
stepmother. His account of his experiences in battle
didn't interest her. This afternoon he was merely a
guest to be tolerated. A boy.
It was infuriating.
Yet he couldn't help being fascinated. The late
afternoon sun haloed her red hair and profile, making
her look like some beautiful image from a church
window.
Catherine drank two goblets of blackberry wine
during the meal. She didn't touch the
quill pen, the ink
stand, or the foolscap sheet in front of her
place. One line was written at the top of the sheet
in a delicate, slanting hand:
Somehow she seemed unable to get down to working on the
list, or even to discussing it, permitting the conversation
to veer off in other directions.
"Jeremiah." She refilled her goblet a third
time. "How was the colonel's state of mind when-when
he-was
She couldn't complete the sentence.
A black woman cleared the unfinished dish of
dessert plums from his place as he answered,
"Well, apart from fretting about you two, he seemed
to be in good spirits the night before we fought at
Jonesboro."
A lie. He balanced it with a truth:
"He was annoyed, though."
"Why?"
"There was something special he wanted to read. The
next part of a serial story in a New York
weekly. Someone had given him two old copies
that contained the first two chapters, or whatever you call
them."
"Installments," Serena said.
He felt humiliated again. "Anyway, it was some
sort of spooky story by a writer named
Wilkie-was Memory faltered a second time.
"Wilkie Collins?" Catherine asked.
"Yes, I think that's it. He said the two things he
wanted most were to see you"-the remark was intended
to include Serena, but she paid no attention- "and
to finish The Woman in White."
Catherine sighed and dabbed her napkin against the corner
of her mouth. "He had a fine mind. He was a
literate, Christian man. We had good times just
talking, or going over the ledgers. Small things."
"Small things were all he cared about," Serena
complained.
Voice thicker, Catherine retorted, "You mustn't
speak disrespectfully of your father."
"I'm not being disrespectful, I'm telling the
truth!" At last she faced Jeremiah, who
occupied a place at one side of the long table, between
the women seated at the ends. "I don't know how many
times I begged Papa to take us to Savannah so
we could have dinner at the Pulaski 'House. Best
food in the whole state, everyone says. Best in the
whole South! But he wouldn't, he was always content
around here. Do you know I've never been out of
Jefferson County except for part of a year at
Christ College where Catherine taught? I
wanted to see New Orleans, Savannah-even
Washington. And all I ever saw were silly books
and silly women in a stuffy old lyceum!"
Catherine bristled, waggling her goblet:
"You also saw a few disreputable young men who took
you buggy riding after hours. Who compromised you
by bringing along spiritous liquors."
Serena glanced at her stepmother's glass. "You're
a fine one to talk!"
Catherine scowled. "Serena-was The warning went
unfinished because the girl spoke immediately:
"Well, you are!" She turned to Jeremiah:
"Catherine's always been a pillar of the county
temperance society. Of caret course none of those
nice ladies has any idea there's always a jug
of blackberry wine handy around-was
"Enough, Serena When there's a war, things- things
change. Your father's been gone a'long time. Sometimes
a person needs help to keep going."
Serena's laugh had a vicious sound. "And
everything's fine as long as it's taken on the sly!"
Catherine set the goblet on the table and stared at it,
sadly. Jeremiah wanted to run. Only
politeness kept him there, caught in the hostility
boiling between the two women.
Although Catherine's unhappy concentration on the goblet
was an admission of guilt, Serena didn't find that
satisfying enough:
"I tell you, sometimes I just get sick to death of the
way you look down on me! You act like Moses on
the mount! One of these days-was
Flushed, she held back the rest. Catherine
looked at her, half stunned, half furious:
"What, Serena?"
"Nothing."
"No, I insist. Finish the sentence. Did you mean
to threaten me?"
"No, I-really, I didn't. I apologize."
Her voice was flat; insincere.
Jeremiah grimaced. She obviously had meant the
uncompleted sentence as a warning. But prudence-or
a second thought that represented more deviousness than
caution-had convinced her to keep it to herself.
Still, she wasn't through baiting the older woman, though
she did it indirectly, speaking to him again.
"Catherine's always been just heartbroken that I
didn't last the year at the institute. I was
supposed to study for a degree in the arts,
but one of the proctors smelled spirits when I came in
ten minutes late one night. A whole ten
minutes! That was the end of my grand education. Not that
I cared! I was glad to leave that stupid place."
The colonel's widow picked up the quill and
tapped the nib against the inkstand. "I don't believe
we need subject Jeremiah to an account of your
unfortunate record at Montpelier."
He tried to ease the tension with a smile and a shrug:
"I was never much for studying either. My mother couldn't
get me to do lessons when we traveled."
With that, he finally succeeded in attracting Serena's
full attention.
"Did you travel many places?"
"All over the South. My stepfather-he's dead
now-"he was an actor."
Serena seemed genuinely interested:
"Oh, you must have seen such wonderful sights!"
He made a face. "Hotel rooms. Dirty
theaters. Sooty railroad cars. Depots in the
middle of the night."
"You're not being honest. I can't imagine anything more
exciting than visiting different cities and towns.
I want to travel one of these days. Travel-stay
in fine hotels-was
She searched his face a moment. Did he? she
seemed to ask silently. Catherine's quill went
tap against the inkstand, then, quickly, tap again.
"What about that relative of yours in New York?"
Serena wanted to know. "Did you ever visit him?"
"My second cousin once removed? No, I've
never set eyes on Louis Kent."
"He's a wealthy man, though-didn't you tell us
he's a wealthy man?"
"Very wealthy," he nodded. He'd been unable to gain
her attention for so long, he wanted to keep it. The
boast came easily: was 'Course our side of the
family-the Virginia side-has money too. My
brothers and I will come into a lot of it when our father
dies,"
"You will?" She folded her hands under her chin,
"You're not making that tip?"
"Absolutely not." To convince her, he related
how his father, the Reverend Jephtha Kent, had
inherited a California gold claim and a
subsequently formed mining corporation from
Jeremiah's grandfather, a mountain man and
prospector in the 1849 rush. Serena still acted
dubious as he went on: his
""Gideon, Matt, and I will come
into equal shares when father passes away-although thanks
to the war, I
don't know what's happened to either one of them
lately. Matt was always footloose-I expect
he's taking care of himself, wherever he is. But I
really worry about Gid. We're not sure if
he's dead or in prison up north. If he's
dead, I suppose his wife in Richmond inherits
his share. But however it turns out, even a third of the
earnings of that California company will be mighty
handsome."
Teasing, Serena said, "If there is a California
company."
Catherine exhaled, an abrupt, exasperated
sound. "Serena, I don't know what to do with you.
I've never heard you speak more rudely to anyone-with
possibly one exception."
Jeremiah fought back another wave of anger.
"That's all right, Mrs. Rose. I'm used
to doubters. Boys in the army called me a liar every
day of the week. The truth is-was
He grinned in a disarming way.
"comI'm not bright enough to make up a story like that."
Catherine's eyes were warm as she responded, "Or
malicious enough to try to deceive people. I believe
you."
Serena studied her mother. Perhaps Catherine's conviction
had persuaded her. She was more polite when she said:
"Why, I do too! I was only having a little
fun."
"You have peculiar notions as to what constitutes fun,
Serena. You have peculiar notions about a good many-was
Serena didn't let her finish:
"What are you going to do with all that money when you get
it?"
Less angry now-though Catherine wasn't-he
shrugged again, and replied honestly:
"Hadn't given it much thought. It'll be a long time
before I see any of it. My father's in fine health,
and I wouldn't wish him anything less-even if he
is a damn Yankee."
That admission represented a change in his
attitude that had taken place gradually over the
past couple of years. He could still recall a
vivid, ugly scene in a hotel room in
Washington when Fan and his father had screamed at one
another. Lamont had tried to intercede, and
Gideon had wound up caning Jephtha
unmercifully. Jeremiah had been terrified,
understanding none of it.
Later, after Lamont's funeral, Fan had
spoken to him and said Gideon and Jephtha were
reconciled now- and that it had been Lamont, not
Jephtha, who'd been responsible for the violent
quarrel. She'd refused to explain further, and
he'd never been able to learn more of the details. But
her statements were an additional bit of proof of
something suspicious about Lamont's death.
He sat up a little straighter, conscious of Serena
watching him closely. He had her now! Even if
she still wasn't wholly convinced about the California
gold, she was at least treating him as if he were
something more than a worthless boy.
Surrendering to an ugly impulse, he decided
he'd fix her for all her previous slights. He
shifted the position of his chair so he faced
Catherine:
"I think we've talked enough about money. Maybe we
should get to work on your list."
The older woman smiled, but in a tired way. "I
suppose you're right. I've been avoiding it. I
hate to think of why we must make a list at all."
The wine had definitely affected her speech.
Slowed and slurred it. Lent it a despairing
note. She inked the quill. Thought a
moment.
"We must put some salt away. What little we have
left."
She-made a notation, then pondered again.
"Two barrels of flour."
She marked it down.
"I have two bolts of kersey in the sewing room.
I wouldn't want to lose those."
"Heavens, no!" Serena exclaimed.
What a wretched excuse for a Thanksgiving dinner
this had turned out to be! Of course, he admitted
to himself a moment later, he hadn't exactly eased
the situation by giving in to his impulse and turning his
back dison Serena. But he felt too embarrassed
to shift the chair again.
While he watched Catherine Rose working on her
list, he missed seeing the speculative look in
Serena's blue eyes. She was no longer interested
in her stepmother.
She was watching him.
ii
Late that night, unable to sleep, he lay with his
hands clasped beneath his head, pondering the peculiar and
venomous conversation between the Rose women.
All he could settle on as possible
causes for their barely controlled animosity were two
things. The first was Catherine's evident need for strong
drink, coupled with the fact that she concealed the need from
her neighbors and the members of the temperance
society. The second was Serena's undisciplined
behavior, which had apparently gotten her expelled
from the young women's institute. Still, both reasons
seemed too trivial to generate the kind of
hostility that had crisscrossed the dining table.
He recalled certain other words of Catherine's.
Serena had "peculiar notions." Could that possibly
be a polite term for crazy? The girl's nature
plainly included a violent, reckless streak. The
blood he'd washed from the cuff of his nightshirt said
as much.
Yet the underlying reason for the animosity between the two
continued to elude him. Not that he much cared to probe for
it.
Trouble was, the longer he stayed at Rosewood,
the more likely he was to uncover it. The women were
revealing more and more of themselves as each day passed. Perhaps
the stress of living with the threat of Sherman's army
made such a situation inevitable. He didn't like
being in the middle of it. But he was.
Well, at least he'd scored a point
or two against Catherine's bitchy stepdaughter.
He was no longer quite so much of a child in her eyes.
His feelings about her were complex and upsetting. There was
something damned dangerous about her. Yet the memory
of her blue eyes and red hair kept him awake and
aroused for almost an hour.

During the next two days, Catherine put
Jeremiah in charge of the heavier work called for by the
Thanksgiving-day list. He was helped by a husky,
companionable nigra named Leon; the one Serena had
called on when she tried to whip a confession out of
Price.
Jeremiah and the black man dug a pit behind the
slaves' burial ground. There they buried the
casks of salt and flour.
Next they loaded the plantation wagon with bales of
cotton, the two bolts of kersey, and two more of
denim cloth carried from the sewing room. Leon
hitched mules to the wagon and showed Jeremiah a
straggling track that led off into pine woods a quarter
mile behind the little cemetery.
In a clearing far back in the woods they erected a
lean-to of limbs and brush to protect the cache of
cotton and cloth, to which they presently added
two small barrels
of molasses and a large chiming clock Henry
Rose had presented to Catherine as a wedding
present. Catherine had confessed she felt a mite
ridiculous hiding an item of sentimental value
such as the clock. But she had no basis for making
decisions about what the Yanks might want other
than reports received once or twice a day from the
citizens of Louisville. They sent their nigras
around the neighborhood to say that Sherman's army was
indeed coming, and the general's order giving permission for
his soldiers to forage liberally was being interpreted as
permission to steal anything the invaders pleased.
Leon and Jeremiah tried to operate
circumspectly on their trips into the pines. The
big, innocent-eyed slave reported that Price
seemed in extremely high spirits. When Jeremiah
questioned him about any references Price might have made
to a stolen Enfield, Leon allowed as how Price
hadn't said anything directly about the musket But
he had been bragging that he'd be "fixed mighty good"
if the enemy showed up at the gate by the highway.
Jeremiah wished there were at least one weapon in the
house besides kitchen implements and his knife.
He and Leon kept an eye out for
Price whenever they drove the loaded wagon back
into the trees. They never once saw the buck
watching. But since the other nigras had observed the
wagon's comings and goings, Jeremiah was sure
Price was well aware of their activity.
Leon reported that something like a quarter of the blacks
on the place were whispering about being free soon. A
few more questions on Jeremiah's part revealed that a
fierce split was developing at Rosewood. The
more loyal nigras were being lectured by Maum
Isabella until they promised they wouldn't
assist the invaders in any way. And although the
malcontents went about their duties as usual, they
did so with a changed attitude. Ion summed it
up:
"They didn't use to say nasty things about Miz
Catherine,
but they sayin' plenty of "em now. And every other word,
almos"-it's jubilee. Jubilee comin'-was
Did that mean only a celebration of new
freedom? Jeremiah wondered. Or was it a code
word that included reprisals?
Wherever he went on the plantation, he kept in
greater-than sheathed knife in his boot
iv
After the final trip back from the cache about mid
caret day on Saturday, Jeremiah was in the barn
unhitching the mules when a long shadow fell across the
matted straw on the floor. He turned; caught
his breath-
Price was leaning in the entrance, arms folded.
"You and Leon sure been busy, mister soldier."
"Listen, Price! You know my name."
"Reckon I don't have to use it, though. Reckon
I don't have to do anything you say with those Yanks so
close. What you and Leon hidin' back in the
pines "sides cotton?"
"Go ask Mrs. Rose!"
The anger didn't ruffle the black.
"Oh, I doubt she'd tell me. Whatever you're
puttin" away, I bet the Yanks find it. They
goin' to find you too. "Less of course you plan
to hide out."
"Price, one more goddamn word out of you-was
A chuckle. "An* what? You get after me? You
tear into me? Any time, mister soldier. Any time
you want, you welcome to try."
He unfolded his arms, started away, then paused:
"Yanks gonna get you. Oh, yes, you bet they
are." The brown pupils seemed to grow
larger. "If they don't, I will."
"Price, how come you despise me so much?"
The forced calm in Jeremiah's voice brought a
smirk to the other man's face. "Why, that's easy.
You one of
the soldiers been fighting" to keep me property
"stead of a free man."
"Bullshit."
Startled, Price raised an eyebrow. "How's
that?"
"You heard. Here's the way I figure it. For you,
being property's only an excuse. The day you
brought me here, I saw how you scowled at the mama
of that little girl who ran to see your turtle. I
think you like people to be scared of you. Nigra, white, I
don't think it makes a particle of difference so
long as you keep 'em scared. I bet there's not one
damn person in creation you do like-or would ever treat
kindly. I met a couple of officers in the army just
like you."
"Mister soldier, you think whatever you want. That
won't change the way things come out 'tween us."
"Just how do you propose to fix me, Price? With
my musket?"
The black put on a pious expression
whose exaggeration was almost ludicrous:
"Musket? You still got a notion I stole that88A
soft, clucking sound indicated how pathetic he found
the idea. "I don't need no musket, mister
soldier."
He held up both hands, sunlight behind him shining
between his fingers.
"Just need these."
He sauntered out of sight, his shrinking, distorted
shadow lying at an angle across the straw at the barn
entrance for what seemed like half a minute after he
himself had disappeared.
With Serena
CATHERINE ROSE had more than a thousand dollars in
Confederate bills in her office. On Saturday,
Jeremiah locked the bills in a trunk in the
steaming attic, along with pouches of valuable papers:
deeds; ledgers; the colonel's will. Downstairs,
he returned the key to Catherine, who put it back
on the ring with the others.
New padlocks ha caret been hastily obtained
from Louisville the day before. Jeremiah and Leon
installed them on the doors of the gin house, corn
cribs, and barns. As though locks could stop
Sherman's men!
But doing something was better than doing nothing,
especially when the highway had begun to show increased
activity.
Poor farm families, slaveless, passed in
rickety wagons, fleeing the county. A Home
Guards unit consisting of twelve elderly men and
four boys marched by. Eight horsemen wearing
yellow-faced gray arrived-a contingent of General
Wheeler's cavalry. As they watered their horses
at the trough near the well they reported the situation
was worse than anyone had imagined.
Sherman's sixty thousand were sweeping across the state
on a broad front. In its wake the army left
burned buildings, ruined fields, slaughtered
livestock, and occasionally comone of the troopers
whispered to Jeremiah- raped women.
The leader of the cavalrymen warned Catherine Rose
to leave the plantation. She thanked him for his concern,
said no, and sent the riders on their way.
u
Late Sunday afternoon Jeremiah was on his knees in
the sitting room, using his knife to cut a slit in
the back of ah expensive horsehair sofa.
Once the cut was made, Catherine started to hand him
the family silver. He slid each
piece through the slit and worked it down into the sofa's
stuffing. Perhaps eighty. or ninety pieces were
jammed in before he pushed the sofa back against the
wall.
He walked around in front and sat, deliberately
letting his weight come down hard. The sofa clinked and
jingled like some peculiar musical instrument.
"God a'mighty!" he sighed. "Any Yank
sits here, he'll discover the silver right off."
"I'm hoping they'll be decent enough not to intrude into the
house-was Catherine began, interrupted abruptly
by a distant crackling.
Jeremiah dashed to one of the open windows, jerked the
curtains aside, stuck his head out into the sunlight.
He heard the crackling again.
"That's musketry!"
Catherine turned pale. She and Jeremiah rushed
outside, joined a moment later by Serena, who
appeared around a corner of the house. They stared at the
lane, the highway, the fields beyond. The crackling
was repeated a third time, but more faintly.
Jeremiah wiped sweat from his forehead and turned
to Rose's widow:
"Wherever they are, they're close. I'd better
take the wagon and mules into the pines.
Where's Leon?"
"I sent him down to the bottom to hide three
crates of chickens."
"All right, I'll go alone."
"Let me help," Serena volunteered, startling
him.
Although it was the Sabbath, the girl wore an everyday
cotton dress. Catherine had decided not
to waste-time attending church services in
Louisville.
The day was warm, with a languid, summery feel
unusual for the end of November. A haze hung in
the air and a sultry breeze blew. As Jeremiah
scanned the blurred contours of the land to the north and
west, he suddenly spied something that made his belly
hurt.
He pointed. Serena strained on tiptoe. Finally
Catherine saw it too. A thin, almost invisible
streak of black smoke rising beyond the trees along
the Ogeechee, an oblique mark across the reddening
afternoon sky.
Catherine pressed a fisted hand to her chin.
"Something's on fire."
"We'd better go right now," Jeremiah said.
"I'll hitch the mules."
"You'll need help with that too," Serena said,
surprising him again. She didn't seem the sort for
physical labor. Her duties during the last
couple of days had been limited to light tasks,
including the gathering of pieces of jewelry, which
Catherine had put into a small leather bag she
wore beneath her skirt. The bag was fastened around her
waist by a length of rope. Naturally Jeremiah
hadn't seen the bag. Serena had described it.
He couldn't get over the change warm weather and
tension had produced in the girl. Dirt smudged
one cheek. Sweat rings showed at the armpits of her
dress. Somehow, though, her untidy state didn't
detract from her prettiness; actually seemed
to enhance it by lending her a more human, less remote
quality.
She dashed for the house. "I'll fetch a shawl.
It'll be cool by the time we walk back."
Staring after her, Jeremiah again chided himself for his
interest in the girl. The interest was even more foolish
and harder to explain in the light of what he already
knew about her temperament.
Maybe the attraction had nothing to do with Serena
personally. Maybe it was just a normal combination of
curiosity and inexperience with the opposite
sex. Yet he doubted that. He found himself wondering
how Serena's body looked, naked, beneath all those
clothes.
Not just any woman's body. Hers.
He had difficulty dealing with his feelings about her.
Turning his back on her at Thanksgiving dinner
had compensated for earlier slights, and he'd tried
to start off the next day fresh-as though nothing
unpleasant had happened earlier. She too had
behaved differently; had actually been cordial a
few times. And when a mood was on her-a mood that
prohibited cordiality-at least she didn't act
contemptuous of him. He suspected one possible
reason for her change, but preferred not to think about it.
He didn't exactly like Serena. Not in the way you
liked a friend; a camp comrade. Yet he was
attracted to her, even though caution suggested it was
unwise. Caution, however, came from the head. His
interest lay in another direction entirely. He
felt an embarrassing stir in his groin when he thought
of riding alone with her into the pines.
Catherine seemed to have no objection to then* going off
together. She was preoccupied, watching the smoke rise
in the west:
"Damn them if they're burning private
property! Damn them for making war on homes and
farms!"
Surprised by her use of profanity, he offered
another of his reassurances;
"We won't let them do it here, Mrs. Rose."
But it was becoming more a hope than a certainty.
For a moment he forgot Serena, imprisoned again by the
kind of despairing mood that had gripped him when
Rose spoke to him just before he died. There was no
honor in this scurrying around to hide family
possessions. Hell, it was downright disgraceful!
He stared at the column of smoke and tried
to convince himself it didn't mean what it seemed
to mean. And he silently repeated his vow to stand up
to the Yanks if they came, and demand they deal
honorably with the residents of Rosewood.

Bess and Fred, the mules, were balky. Jeremiah
was glad to have Serena's assistance in hitching them.
She'd combed her hair, pinned her shawl to her
bodice with a brooch, and put on cologne. He
caught her scent as he maneuvered the wagon out of the
barn. Serena closed the door, padlocked it, and
climbed up beside him, sitting so close on the
splintered seat he could practically feel
her leg beneath her skirt.
He drove straight down the dirt track between the
slave cabins. Beside one of them, Price rested in
the shade. He surveyed the wagon without a flicker
of expression. Jeremiah shook the reins to speed the
mules:
"Damn it, why's he lying around as if he
doesn't have a care?"
"He doesn't," Serena said. "The Yanks are
almost here. Besides, what else is there to do except
wait?"
"He would have to see us drive off! He'll know where
we've hidden the wagon. He's probably found the
cache already."
"Leon wouldn't tell him."
That relieved him a little. "You're right. And
Leon's the only other one who knows."
"Leon's trustworthy. He's behaving himself too.
Some of the rest are getting more and more sassy. In the
kitchen just this morning, Maum Isabella had
to slap Francy. She sauced me when I gave
an order. I slapped her once myself for good
measure."
She sounded pleased about it.
Serena began to hum. It took Jeremiah
a few moments
to recognize the melody. The way she speeded it,
the hymn sung at her father's memorial service
sounded more like a minstrel tune. Lord, what an odd
one she was!
He reached down to his boot to make sure the sheathed
knife was secure. The wagon rolled by the
slaves" burial ground and back toward the dark
privacy of the pines.
Once into the relatively cool shade of the trees,
he combbgan to feel increasingly nervous. The mules
plodded. A fly deviled his cheek. He brushed
at it several times, then tried a slap. The fly
disappeared. All at once Serena stopped humming
and leaned against him:
"Jeremiah."
"Yes?"
Softly: "I'm mighty glad you came from
Atlanta."
The touch of her shoulder started his loins quivering in that
embarrassing way. He squinted down the weed-grown
track. "Is that right? I had a notion it didn't
make a bit of difference to you."
"You were wrong. It does."
"Well, Miss Serena, you'll forgive
me, but for a day or two, you surely didn't act
like it."
"I was all upset! Because of Papa. I loved
Papa more than anybody on this earth."
It might be true, he thought, but it didn't change
the fact that she'd undergone an almost complete
reversal.
"Besides-was
She slipped her hand between his elbow and his ribs,
linking her arm with his. In the silence of the woods-
silence interrupted by another far-off stutter of
gunfire comhe felt nervous and hot. Her
cologne even masked the scent of the pines. The
pointed firmness of her left breast pressed his arm.
"comwe need a man on the place. Women just can't
control a bunch of unruly niggers."
"Price is the one to worry about. When he wouldn't
confess to stealing my Enfield, we should have locked him
up."
"Or shot him," Serena said in a matter-of-fact
way. He was stunned; he'd had the identical
thought, but he wouldn't have spoken it to anyone.
"Too bad we didn't have another gun," she
added.
Recovering, he said, "I'll keep
watching him."
He had doubts about his ability to cope with the black
on a man-to-man basis, though. He was
rapidly regaining his strength. The bandaged wound on
his leg troubled him less and less often. But he had
no illusions about Price being a weakling. And he
recalled the threat in the barn:
"Yanks gonna get you. If they don't, I will"
To impress her and reinforce his own determination, he
added, "If any of those Yanks show up, we'll just
have to talk to "em straight and tell 'em we
expect decent treatment."
Serena giggled.
"What's so blasted funny?"'*
"Sometimes you are priceless! You think Yankees'!!
act polite just because we ask?"
still have to believe that. It's one of the reasons I'm
here. Where I came from, there was no honor left.
Not after your father died.
"Yes, I do. They damn well better respect
civilian territory. They will, Serena. I'll
bet that every place there's been trouble, people have provoked
them."
"Now you sound exactly like Catherine," she sighed as
the wagon rounded a bend.
The mules flicked their ears to drive off the huge
blue flies. The slow, lazy rhythm of the hoofs,
the fragrance of her cologne, the isolation, and the
feel of her breast touching his sleeve drove him
into a state of almost uncontrollable excitement.
At the same time he felt uneasy; endangered,
somehow. But it was a sharp, sweet danger, tinged with the
lure of the unknown. Tense as he was, he wouldn't
have stopped the wagon for a minute.
Yet he did stop it all at once, his tongue
stuck in his cheek and his head cocked.
Serena frowned. "What's the trouble?"
He put a finger to his lips! Cold-eyed, he
pointed off to the right. Whispered:
"Thought I heard something."
"Jack rabbits."
"No. Louder. Heavier."
They listened. He was sure he hadn't been wrong.
But the telltale rustling of pine needles and the
rattle of disturbed underbrush wasn't repeated.
He hawed softly to the mules and set the wagon
rolling again.
IV
Serena gazed at dusty bars of sunlight slanting
between the trees:
"Getting late. It'll be dark before we're
finished."
"Maybe not," he muttered. The notion of being alone
with her after nightfall had become almost too
nerve-racking to bear.
"Know something, Jeremiah? For a long time Catherine
thought Price was the best buck on the place."
"She made a mistake."
A curt laugh. "Not, her first. She always thinks the
best of everybody. There was only one person she
never thought well of."
"Who?"
"My real mama."
The words had an unforgiving sound. He let her go
on:
"I heard Catherine arguing about it with Papa once.
He said my mama was a lady, a private music
teacher, and Catherine wasn't to forget it. But she said
he was a
liar. Said the kind of lessons my mama gave
didn't take place on any old piano
stool."
He nearly laughed, but was thankful he hadn't when
Serena turned to look at him. Her blue eyes were
smoldering:
"She called my mama a filthy name."'*
"What was it?"
"I won't repeat it. Why, you know a lady
isn't even supposed to say she has legs. She
has limbs. Once Catherine and I had a real
fuss over that, too. But she did call my mama
a filthy name."
He risked the question:
"Did she call your mother that name without any cause?"
"Makes no difference! She was my mama."
Silence for a while. He'd overstepped. But
Serena's anger was evidently directed at
Catherine for the moment. Sounding melancholy, she
continued:
"I've never even seen a picture of her. There was
a picture in the house at one time, but it was
burned. Papa said Catherine burned it. Believe
me, Catherine isn't as pure and forgiving as she
lets on!"
"I've never met a perfect person yet,
Serena. You should be able to understand why your stepmother
isn't wild about your father's first wife. When my mother
remarried, my father felt the same way about her new
husband."
"But Catherine didn't have to use a filthy
word! I can't forgive her for that. Ever!"
She drew a deep breath.
"One of these days I'm going to pay her back."
The soft, quiet statement sent another shiver chasing
down his spine. He recognized the cruelty in the
words because he was tainted with a cruel streak himself.
Serena stared straight ahead. "Guess it must have
been true about Mama. But Catherine didn't have
to say it. That's the point-she said it."
Did she ever say it to you?"
"Yes indeed. After I overheard the conversation with
Papa, I marched right in to see her-she'd been
helping herself to that wine she takes on the sly-and we
went at it for the best part of half an hour. She
called Mama that filthy name right to my face!"
"Well, I'm beginning to understand why you and Mrs.
Rose don't get along too well," he said with a
humorless smile.
Her teasing had a wicked undertone:
"Why, Jeremiah Kent, you're quicker than I
thought!"
Stung, he retorted, "Thanks for such a kind
compliment."
"Oh, I didn't mean to anger you."
She raised her head; pecked his cheek.
Her lips felt warm and moist.
'Truly I didn't."
To cover his awkwardness, he batted at another fly
buzzing near his ear. The pines were growing darker,
suffused by the sun's deep red. It seemed too
early in the day for sunset, he thought, though it was
almost December. Back home in Virginia, there
might have been a light frost by now.
Serena perked up a little: "I won't have to fret about
Catherine forever, though. She'll go to her grave
eventually and I'll be free of her. I'll have a
good husband -"
He was relieved to have an opportunity to drop the
subject of Serena's stepmother. In a lighter tone,
he responded:
"Got one picked already?"
She shook her head. "But I know what I want.
A man with some money. Money he's willing to use
to make more money. Papa's father and grandfather had the
knack. They knew how to buy up land. Increase the
crop yields. Papa bought a little more acreage for
Rose
wood, but he was happiest just standing still. He kept the
place almost the same as it was when he inherited it.
I want a man with bigger ideas. One who
won't be content sitting in an office going over
books-or reading ghost stories for excitement in the
evening. I want a man who can run Rosewood
right!"
Jeremiah grinned. "You're talking as if it's
already yours."
"It will be when Catherine dies-same as with that
California gold mine you spoke about. With
Rosewood and my husband's money, we'll be able
to build a really big place. Travel, too.
Into Savannah to the Pulaski House. Maybe
to Europe. I'll find a man hike that, I know
I will. I know because I can offer a man a lot-""
She gave him an almost brazen smile.
"Rosewood and some other nice things. Provided
he treats me right."
"I-was He was almost afraid to speak. "I think
it'd be grand to treat you right. Take you places-I
mean it'd be grand for that husband you're talking about."
Disappointment: "Oh."
"Now what'd I do?"
"Nothing. Guess I had the wrong idea."
"What idea?"
"For a minute I had a notion you might be talking
about yourself."
He couldn't help blushing. "Oh, no. You're
older than I am."
"But you've been to war! That ages a boy pretty
fast I'm told."
He was at a loss to explain her sudden warmth
except for one reason he'd been trying to forget: the
Thanksgiving day conversation about how he and his brothers
would be wealthy men when Jephtha Kent passed on.
He'd always been aware in a vague way that his father
would leave him a considerable amount of money.
But he'd hardly ever dwelled on the consequences of the
inheritance; what he'd do with it, or how it could make
him important to others. Now, for almost the first time,
he began to understand.
With the realization there came questions:
How much money would be his? Thousands of dollars?
Millions? He couldn't comprehend millions,
except that it must be a devil of a lot.
It would be good money, too. Gold, not cheapened
Confederate paper.
Millions!
He was a bit overcome by the thought-then disgusted by the
realization that he'd been right about the reason for
Serena's changed behavior. He wanted to let her
know he was aware of the reason. Something held
him back; perhaps the way she squeezed his arm again as
the wagon creaked deeper into the hazy shadow of the
pines.
Tell her you know!
He faced her but still couldn't say it, overcome by the
bold, almost inviting way she was gazing at him.
Smiling -
Lord above, she was a beautiful girl! That was the
problem.
Leaning near again, she whispered, "I imagine a
boy becomes pretty experienced in a war,
doesn't he, Jeremiah?"
"y-yes," he said, not knowing how to respond to the
obvious meaning of the question. "In only one day at
Chickamauga, I learned how to stay alive."
She made a moue. "I meant experienced in other
ways."
His tongue felt stiff. "Women-things like that?"
was "Course."
"Well, I suppose-yes, it's true," he
lied. Aware of the immorality of speaking to a
female about the unspeakable, he still blurted, "How
about you?"
"Jeremiah, that's not a proper thing to ask a
girl!"
But she was pleased.
Blushing again: "I-I was just curious."
"Decent young ladies don't do such thing*-and if
they do, they don't discuss them!" Tormenting him with
her sly smile, she peered down the track and thrust
out a finger. "Isn't that your cache?"
Jeremiah squeezed his legs together to hide the
stiffness, furious at her for leading him on, yet
thankful at the same time that she hadn't permitted
things to go further. Something in his mind kept warning
him:
Leave her alone. She's too deep. Too
devious.
And she's not innocent-
A part of him longed to believe she was. He was
frightened anew by the intensity of that yearning.
"I said, isn't that your cache?"
He nodded, dry-lipped. He just didn't know how
to handle a girl like Serena Rose.
The mules meandered into the little clearing, all but dark
now. Awkwardly, he separated his arm from hers.
Guided the mules to a stop:
"We'll unhitch 'em and tie 'em, and I'll fork
out some of the fodder Leon and I brought in. Then you can
give me a hand pushing the wagon out of
sight."
He spoke very quickly to cover his flustered feeling.
He looped the reins around the brake handle and
climbed down.
Serena slid to the side of the wagon where he stood.
She bent8over, her bosom touched by dull red light
seeping through the pines. She looked down at him, her
tongue licking slowly over her upper lip.
She extended her arms:
"You'll have to help me."
He reached up, too eagerly. She stood,
suddenly appeared to stumble or lose her balance-no
accident, he was sure.
Crying out, she tumbled on top of him.
Red Sky
THEY SPRAWLED on the ground. He started to roll
away, his neck prickled by a burr, only to feel
her hand on his chin.
She pulled him close; so close they were lying
side by side, thighs touching. Her hand slipped
to his cheek:
"Jeremiah, you listen to me. The day you showed up,
I thought you were just a boy. I was wrong. You're a
grown man."
Her mouth came nearer.
"If you want, you can kiss me."
He did-tentatively. All at once she
pressed both palms against his face. With
tantalizing slowness, she caressed his lips with her
tongue.
Then she moved her body tighter against his, giggling
again, this time because of the feel of his bigness.
"Here, here!"
She guided his hand; closed it on her breast. His
fingers were clamped so tightly, he thought he could
detect lace beneath her faded dress.
"Maybe I could give you lessons like the ones my
mama gave. But you were in the army. I 'spose you
don't need them-was
Another kiss. Harder; deeper.
"You've probably had lots of girls."
And another. Her wet mouth slid up over his
cheek. The tip of her tongue teased his skin.
"You probably don't even like me much because of
the foolish way I treated you the first couple of
days."
They lay in almost total darkness. Over her shoulder
he glimpsed the mules' ears twitching away
flies.
Get away! he thought. She's all
tangled up inside About her real mother, and her
stepmother-and she doesn't give a hang for you, if
s that money she found out about-
"Jeremiah, Jeremiah," she murmured, beginning
to move her left leg beneath her skirt. The leg
rubbed slowly, languorously against his. "Do you like
me any at all?"
"A lot, Serena-a lot." The feel of her leg
turned him so rigid he hurt.
"You're not fibbing to me?"
"No. No."
All at once he knew they wouldn't stop. Knew
it as surely as he knew his name.
She'd had other lovers before; or at least there was
reason for suspicion. The way she talked. The
practiced touch of her hands. And he didn't want
his first experience to happen with a soiled woman.
Despite the way soldiers bragged, no decent
man wanted that.
Yet something perverse in him refused to call a
halt to the kissing and fondling. He wanted to discover
how experienced she was. And answering that question would
answer a larger one: How did a man behave with a
woman? Any woman?
Her lashes were soft on his cheek as she
clasped his wrist and tugged. Somehow her skirt had
hiked up.
"You can feel me if you want."
He did, pressing hard against the cotton underclothes
until she moaned. He almost yelled when she put
her hand on him in a way he'd never imagined any
woman would be so bold as to do. She kissed his ear,
murmuring:
"You'd be a good husband, I'll bet. A fine
husband."
He tried to comprehend all the implications of that
Red
astonishing word. They were too many and complex. And now
wasn't the time. He flung a leg over her hip-
Instantly, she rolled her head to the side. He
saw red light reflected in her pupils.
"What's wrong, Serena?"
"Just wait a minute."
"But I thought-was
"Wait a minute!"
Fury then: "Damn it, I thought you wanted-**
was "Course I do! I want it as badly as you!
Just calm down a little! I noticed the sky all at
once-was
She struggled to sit up. "What time is
it?"
Still frustrated, he growled, "How should I know? I
don't own a watch."
"Look over there. The sun's down but the sky's
all red."
He jumped up, realizing what it might mean.
He ran to the west edge of the clearing. He could see
little through the pines except the seepage of scarlet
light that encompassed almost half of the hidden
horizon.
Jolted back to his senses, he swallowed.
"Serena-He wiped his face. "That's not sun, that's
fire."
"Dear God!"
She scrambled to her feet, knocking bits of weed
from her skirt and raking two burrs from her red
hair.
"Is it the soldiers?"
"I don't know. We'd better hurry back."
He was angry about the interruption. She sensed it, and
raised her head to give him an almost chaste kiss
on the lips.
"Yes, we'd better. I'm sorry. There'll be
times later -"
"Will there?"
"If you want it."
No, I don't! There's something tangled and wrong
about-
The loveliness of her face overwhelmed him:
"I do."
He slipped his arms around her waist for one more
fierce kiss. Then they set to unhitching Bess and
Fred, hurriedly tying them on long tethers and forking
out fodder. Finally, shoving and straining, they rolled the
wagon tongue-first into the brush.
They couldn't conceal all of it. The back still jutted
into the clearing. Jeremiah pulled out his knife and
whacked off pine boughs to cover most of it. He
smelled smoke now, drifting out of the west.
He checked the lean-to where the household items
had been stored, then caught Serena's hand and raced
toward the track. They ran through the dark of the pines,
stumbling in weedy patches, their faces lashed
by branches not seen soon enough.
The smell of smoke grew stronger. The red glare
in the night sky brightened.
ii
As they hurried up the lane between the slave
cottages, he breathed hard, pain stabbing his chest
because of the long run. His bandaged leg ached.
Serena clung to his arm, barely keeping pace.
He grew aware of a stir and buzz on the porches
of the cottages. An infant bawled. He heard a
palm strike. The baby shrieked louder. He
groped for Serena's hand and practically dragged her
toward the house.
Probably not one buck, woman, or youngster was
sleeping tonight. He sensed rather than saw them sitting
or standing in small groups in the darkness-whispering and
pointing at the glow in the west.
Twice he heard laughter. Some of the nigras
weren't frightened at all. The red sky was a
signal. Jubilee!
When he and Serena started across the rear piazza, a
figure bolted from the shadows and ran at them.
Serena screamed.

. Jeremiah whirled her behind him-then breathed
easier, recognizing Leon's hulking shoulders.
"Marse Jeremiah?"
"Not now, Leon."
"Yes, you got to listen! Price-he's gone.*"
"What?"
"That's right. Nobody seen him since just after you
drove off in the wagon. He must of run
away when he heard the Yanks was so close."
"We're better off rid of him." Serena declared.
Jeremiah gestured her silent. "Did you tell
Mrs. Rose?"
Leon shook his head. "Didn't want to upset
her. Things bad enough already."
He grimaced. "If we're lucky, Price is
on his way to the blessed freedom of Linkum land,"
"Marse Jeremiah, we ain't that lucky. I bet
he's bid-in' out in the pines, plottin'
mischief."
A shudder rippled across Jeremiah's back. He
tried to sound unworried:
"Thank you for warning us, Leon. Come on, Serena.
Hurry!"
IV
They ran straight through the house and out to the drive,
where he'd heard voices and glimpsed a spill of
lamplight.
Holding the light, Maum Isabella looked
surprisingly composed. So did Catherine. The
same couldn't be said
for the wispy woman in faded bombazine who was seated
in the hooded chaise.
The women swayed from side to side, sweaty
faced and fanning herself with a kerchief. Jeremiah would
have chuckled at the woman's expression, except that
he knew she was fearfully frightened.
Next to her sat a haggard Judge Claypool.
Two scruffy nigras, each lugging an old
portmanteau, stood immediately behind the chaise. As
Jeremiah and Serena approached, Claypool
exclaimed:
comn staying a moment longer!" "Where are you going?"
Catherine asked. "Savannah. Nell has a
sister there. If you have any brains, you'll get out
too."
For a moment Catherine Rose didn't reply. She
turned slightly, acknowledging the presence of
Jeremiah and her stepdaughter. Her gray,
fatigue-shadowed eyes remained calm until she
noticed Serena's mussed shawl, dusty skirt, and
tangled hair.
Catherine said nothing. But she gave Serena a
steady, knowing look. Her face seemed to sadden, then
firm again as she returned her attention to the judge:
"No, Theodore. We'll stay."
"I swear to God, Catherine-was The old man
snatched his wife's kerchief and swabbed the
perspiration glistening in the white stubble on
his chin. The abrupt movement shifted his coat,
revealing the bolstered horse pistol. "comy have no
idea of how many there are. Hundreds. Thousands!
All around Louisville. On foot. On
horseback. In wagons-the damn wagons are
loaded with stolen furniture! Why the hell does
an army need furniture? I saw soldiers
carrying chicken coops, others leading livestock.
They're taking everything! And some of the stragglers-why,
you've never laid eyes on such scum!"
"Theodore," she broke in, "this is my home,
I'd rather try to defend it than leave."
"Same thing that witless Clive Jesperson said ten
minutes ago!"
"Clive Jesperson is right. If we leave,
everything will be gone for certain."
"Well, it's your decision. But you'd better get
rid of
any wines and spiritous liquors because I hear the
, Yanks want alcohol almost as much as they want
food."
"I'll take your advice, thank you."
"Ought to take all of it and get out right-brace was
Claypool noticed Jeremiah watching him with
disapproval. He blurted:
"Nell's heart isn't strong. I'd stay, but I
don't feel it's fair to risk-was
"We understand perfectly," Catherine put in,
saving him from humiliation. She turned to the ragged
blacks: "Floyd-Andrew-you look after Judge
Claypool and his wife. Go on now, Theodore.
We'll be fine."
Finally, Mrs. Claypool spoke:
"You're foolish, Catherine. Foolish! God be
merciful over your mistake."
Claypool was almost incoherent with frustration:
"Isn't the Almighty she needs to beg for mercy,
it's General Sherman! Giddap!"
He lashed the reins over the back of his horse,
nearly tumbling his panicked wife into the drive as
the chaise lurched forward and took the curve with its
right wheels lifting off the fine-crushed stone. A
moment later the chaise was rattling down the lane
toward the highway, the two blacks with the
portmanteaus running and puffing behind.
Jeremiah heard the gate open. Someone disturbed the
bell rope. The bell tolled once. The mournful
echo was a long time dying.
Slowly, the carriage noise faded in the broad
band of darkness lying on the land. At the
upper edge-treetop level-the darkness shaded from
maroon to vivid scarlet. The light shifted
constantly; glimmering feebly in
one quarter of the sky; intensifying in another.
Smoke blew, blurring the distant trees. The
wind carried the stench. It came most strongly from the
left; from heavy woodlands through which the highway curved
torturously before breaking into the open in front of
Rosewood.
"It's the Jesperson place," Catherine
whispered. "That's where the smoke is. Oh, poor
Mr. Jesperson! He's worked all his life
to build that little patch into a decent farm."
Jeremiah hardly heard. He was most concerned about
the darkness. Unseen, the Yanks were approaching through
it. Unseen, Price might be lurking in it.
With that damn gun! he thought, feeling for one ghastly
moment just as terrified as he had when he'd first
climbed toward Union marksmen at
Chickamauga.
The Prisoner
ON THE MONDAY MORNING following
Thanksgiving, hundreds of miles to the north,
Gideon Kent sat cross-legged among the all but
silent Confederate officers who formed a ring
around the single small stove in the barracks.
During the night the weather had changed. Severe
winds out of the northwest had brought snowflakes
whirling down on the island the local residents
called Pea Patch. The wind speared through dozens
of ill-fitting joints in the boards of the shed-like
structure.
The barracks had been Gideon's home for six
months. The sergeant in charge of this particular pen
had lit the stove about half an hour earlier-nine
thirty-after tossing in a handful of wood chips. One
handful. And he'd done it smiling that unctuous
smile Gideon had come to loathe:
"There, boys. Don't say Father Abraham
doesn't care about your welfare. You'll be cozy
all day and all night too."
A couple of officers had muttered obscene
replies. But not loudly. By now, most of the inmates
were well acquainted with the temperamental
idiosyncrasies of Sergeant Oliver
Tillotson. Staying safe in the state that passed
for living was just slightly preferable to risking
Tillotson's wrath.
The sergeant was always cheerful when he dispensed items
necessary for mere survival. A few stove
chips or
the morning's ration of three hardtacks were presented
as though he expected, the prisoners to be grateful
for his generosity, and by extension, that of the commandant,
Brigadier General Schoepf.
Tillotson dealt harshly with complaints. Some said
he patterned his behavior after the officer who
controlled the island. This Gideon couldn't verify.
He'd only seen Schoepf once, from a distance, as
the commandant was entering the little Gothic chapel built,
ironically enough, by the so-called chain gang:
murderers, thieves, and deserters from the Union
army who were kept at Fort Delaware along with the
Confederate prisoners. Unfortunately he saw
Tillotson every day except the Sabbath.
The stove's iron door stood wide open. Yet
the heat did almost nothing to dispel the chill in the shed.
Gideon's teeth started to chatter. He clenched
them. It helped a little.
He'd wakened well before daylight, vainly struggling
to find warmth by readjusting his one small, worn
blanket. The blanket was folded so half of it
cushioned his feet and calves and the other half
covered them. But the blanket, now draped over his
shoulders, and the grimy overcoat and the filthy
clothing beneath, couldn't begin to restore heat to his
emaciated body; not even with Tillotson's
largesse blazing inside the stove.
The thin paperbound book he was attempting to read
slipped from his stiffening hands. Around him he heard the
Confederate officers speaking in quiet, resigned
voices. Discussing what they always discussed:
How long the war would last.
How they were unlucky enough to be captured and sent to the
most feared prison in all the North.
Their loved ones.
And escape. That was a truly laughable subject.
Ridiculous rumors circulated on the island at
least once a week. Most sprang from the occasional
issues of The Palmetto Flag, a
pro-Southern newspaper published
up the river in Philadelphia. The Flag was not
permissible reading for the prisoners. But they heard from
certain guards that it hinted more than once that the
twelve thousand Confederate inmates might break out
and seize the whole river corridor.
Which twelve thousand? Gideon usually asked him
self when he heard the latest story. Last
month's? Or this month's? The population of the island
in the Delaware River was constantly
changing. New prisoners arrived; former ones who
hadn't survived the dirt and foul food and
sporadic physical abuse were flung into pits in
Salem County, over on the Jersey shore. When
the air was clear, a man allowed up on the dikes
could look out and see gravediggers preparing new
pits. The work never stopped.
In Gideon's opinion, if the sponsors and
writers of The Palmetto Flag wanted an
insurrection, they'd have to plan and conduct it themselves.
The prison population contained few men strong enough
to fight anyone for longer than fifteen or twenty
seconds; it required all of a man's depleted
strength and mental stability just to endure from day to day.
Growing colder, Gideon gave up trying to read.
He let his eyes drift around the circle. Did
the other men feel as dispirited and miserable as he?
Most looked as if they did, though there were
exceptions. Two officers on the opposite side
of the ring, for example. Hughes and Chatsworth.
They were disliked by the rest of the inmates of the pen because
both had come to Fort Delaware with an ample, and
unexplained, supply of Yankee currency. No
doubt they had wealthy and influential relatives in
the North. In any case, the two had
quickly formed an alliance.
With their money Hughes and Chatsworth could solicit
extra favors from Tillotson. They bought
slivers of soap they refused to share. At the moment
they were playing checkers with pebbles. Their board was a
section
of siding marked off with charcoal. They'd paid
Tillotson fifteen dollars for the piece of
lumber, and made no secret of it.
The two officers sometimes rented the board to others.
But the price was high. Part of the day's rations of each
man who wanted an hour's game. There weren't many
takers-nor much cordiality toward the profiteers.
Hughes and Chatsworth took turns sleeping with the
board so it wouldn't be stolen.
Near Gideon were four men much better liked.
John Hunt Morgan's brothers, one a
captain and one a colonel, were playing euchre with
Cicero Coleman, late of the Eighth Kentucky
Cavalry, and Hart Gibson, who'd been
assistant adjutant general on John
Morgan's staff.
John Hunt Morgan was dead now; they'd heard
that in October. The audacious cavalryman had
raided into the North, been captured, then
escaped from a prison in Columbus, Ohio,
only to be shot down in a minor skirmish near
Greeneville, Tennessee. Another loss of an
able man that was creating a disastrous pattern for the
South.
Morgan might have been luckier than the rest of us,
Gideon said to himself, his closed eyes watering. The
book slid out of his lap. For a moment he was too
listless to retrieve it from the rank-smelling straw
littered on the floor. His mind was drawn along a
steadily darkening current of thought:
Might have been better to go quickly, like Stuart, instead
of this way, one miserable hour at a time.
He stretched, hoping the movement would stir him out of
his depressed state. He knew he shouldn't permit
himself to think such morbid thoughts. He'd worked hard
to survive on this damned island by remembering his
wife and his small daughter-and his consuming desire
to start a new life once he was free.
He'd made an effort to use the time in prison
constructively. Use it to continue to make up for the
abysmal lack of knowledge that was his constant burden:
 7 don't know how to read well, and write well-
how to think well when I walk out of this place--I
won't be able to support Margaret and the
baby with anything except menial work.
For them, he wanted to be able to do more than that. So
whenever he could, he read. Old issues of
Leslie's Illustrated Weekly, or
pro-Union newspapers from Wilmington and
Philadelphia. Sergeant Tillotson passed
them out now and then, but always as if he were some blasted
millionaire bent on good works and wanting everyone
to appreciate it. Tillotson inevitably made
it a point to indicate the columns and the engravings
dealing with Union successes in the field.
Gideon wished for one of the papers or a
Leslie's right now. He couldn't concentrate on the
peculiar unrhymed lines in the cheaply printed
volume Tillotson had grudgingly delivered
to him the day before Thanksgiving. The book had been
oddly wrapped in a triple layer of brown paper
bound with an inordinately long piece of twine.
Except for short topical verses contributed
to Virginia papers, Gideon had read
practically no poetry during his boyhood and
adolescence. He'd found the first few pages of the
work called Leaves of Grass beyond him.
And he'd been brutally disappointed when Leaves of
Grass was all Tillotson had handed
him; just one slim volume with a short message from his
father folded and inserted next to the title page.
He'd been hoping for a good-sized shipment of books;
hoping for it ever since early November, when he'd
received an already opened letter written from the parsonage
of the small Methodist church on Orange Street
in New York City, where Jephtha Kent had again
taken up his original calling.
In the letter, Jephtha had described how difficult
it had been to locate his son.
He'd begun his search after a note from Lexington
reached him via a route he preferred not
to describe. Gideon supposed the route was across
the warring lines. He'd heard there was still a good deal
of illegal trading and smuggling going on. At any
rate, Fan had informed Jephtha their eldest son
was a prisoner. She didn't know where.
Former newspaper contacts in Washington made
inquiries. They reported to Jephtha that Major
Gideon Kent was incarcerated along with other
officers, enlisted men, civilian political
prisoners, and Yankee felons on the island
located where the Delaware River took a sharp,
almost ninety-degree turn toward the southeast, below
Wilmington.
Gideon hadn't wanted his reply to be read. His
request might be snipped out by the censor. So he'd
answered Jeptha with the help of an overworked,
prickly-tempered physician from the prison
infirmary. The doctor voluntarily visited the
barracks every few days, checking on the health of the
inmates. He was one of the few Yanks at Fort
Delaware who seemed to give a damn about the
captives-and he usually went away in bad spirits,
grumbling and cursing over what he'd seen.
Gideon had persuaded the doctor to smuggle a
sealed " letter off the island in his satchel and post it.
The letter asked Jephtha for books.
Presently a second communication from Jephtha
arrived. It said he'd attempted to gain permission
to visit his son. The permission had been denied.
Still, Jephtha's Washington contacts might at
least make it possible for Gideon to receive reading
material. He'd gotten his son's letter. But he'd
wisely phrased the statement about books as if the
idea were his own.
Thus, on the day before Thanksgiving, Tillotson
had brought Gideon the volume of poetry. "A
gift from that
Copperhead father of yours, sir."
Tillotson mockingly addressed all the officers
in the shed as "sir"
The note the censor had allowed to remain in the book
promised that Jephtha would pass along any information
he might unearth concerning Gideon's two younger
brothers. Their welfare was part of Gideon's
constant burden of fear:
He feared for Margaret and little Eleanor as
Grant's war machine maneuvered toward
Richmond.
But he feared for Matthew, too, vanished on a
blockade runner.
And for Jeremiah, who'd mustered in and had been
shipped on the cars to the Army of Tennessee.
God, he said to himself, blue-lipped and shivering, how
long can a man last, not knowing what's happening to his
loved ones?
How long can a man last that way-in a place like
this?
The pessimistic thought was again counteracted by shame.
When they'd shipped him north in a fetid boxcar,
he'd vowed he'd live through the worst the Yanks could
offer. But he'd had no notion of how bad the worst
could be.
His normal weight was a hundred and
sixty pounds. He guessed he'd lost at least
thirty of those pounds by now. Flesh had been steadily
stripped from his tall frame by the inadequate rations:
three hardtacks at nine a.m., and three more in
midafternoon, plus an occasional piece of moldy
bacon or a gill of watery slop Tillotson,
with a straight face, called rice soup.
And water. God above, what water!
During the baking summer, the prison tanks had
nearly gone dry due to a lack of rain. A water
boat had run up nearby creeks to resupply
them. But the unspeakable stuff that came gushing out of the
boat's hoses was tainted with brine; the boat
hadn't gone upstream far enough to escape the salty
tidewater.
And whenever the hoses refilled the tanks, the influx
stirred a hideous sediment in their bottoms. Once
Gideon had tried a cup from a new supply and
vomited when he saw bits of leaves in it, along
with the eye of a fish and several white worm-like
creatures writhing in the murky fluid.
Now he drank water only when absolutely
necessary. He also avoided the stomach-turning
delicacies to which some of the other officers had
resorted in desperation.
This morning all the circumstances of life in the
prison seemed to come down on him with a ferocious
pressure.
The shed was so frigid he could barely move. His
hunger, his physical weakness, the roughness of his
unwashed skin-and the bitterness he felt because his father had
only been able to send him one book of
incomprehensible poetry-stirred a rage in him that
was almost overpowering.
He yearned to strike out. But at what? At whom?
His captors? Old Tillotson?
Futile.
But trying to survive in this pestilential place was
proving futile too. All through August he'd
watched men sicken and die as the sun broiled the
alluvial mud of the Pea Patch. Overloaded
boats had carried corpses stacked like cordwood
to the Jersey pits.
He'd seen hysterical men turn on their guards,
only to be beaten half to death, then carried away
to the infirmary. Those men disappeared too. The
infirmary was said to be run on a reasonably
humane basis. But the injuries dealt out to those who
rebelled were usually too severe for repair;
punishment for guards who defended themselves was
nonexistent.
caret Margaret, he thought, the water in his
half-closed eyes turning to tears. Margaret,.
I've been trying to pull through this. Believe me I
have. But you don't know how hard it is.
His right hand fumbled beneath his filthy coat. Pressed
the pocket of his uniform blouse almost
unconsciously. His fingers probed until he found
the reassuring contours of the scrap of cloth in which he
carried the little memento of his daughter. A lock of
her hair; it had been with him since a few days after
she was born. Some prisoners kept Bibles or
Testaments. The precious curl from Eleanor's
head was his religious token.
Touching it through the dirty cloth of his uniform, he
wished for the impossible-a less hostile war. One in
which the hatreds hadn't built so steadily, until
they affected every phase of the struggle.
Mounting hostility between the warring sides was
responsible for so many men being imprisoned in this
wretched condition. When the North had begun
organizing army units of runaway blacks,
Jefferson Davis had decreed that any such
soldiers captured, as well as their white caret
officers, were not to be treated as prisoners
of war, entitled to exchange. They were to be returned
to the states from which the slaves had escaped, there to be
punished under local laws. In May of "63,
General Halleck had responded by ordering
exchanges halted altogether. When Grant had assumed
command, he'd made certain Halleck's policy was
strictly enforced.
And after the war-what then? Tillotson bragged that he
was a "hard peace" Republican, as opposed to the
re-elected Lincoln, who favored more compassionate
terms as soon as the conflict ended, as it surely
would, with the South defeated. When that happened, wouldn't
the hostilities linger?
Hell, what did he care? He just wanted to get
through it; survive this time and this place by reading,
learning, filling his head with words and ideas that might
help him start again when-if-he were ever shipped home
to Richmond.
 there was still a Richmond.
158The Warriors
The Yankees wanted that city worst of all.
Wanted it captured; even destroyed.
And Margaret was there.
The shed and all it represented had become unbearable
to Gideon. Painfully conscious of his
lack of strength, he staggered to his feet, then
apologized to another cavalryman, Colonel
Basil Duke, for bumping into him. Red, exhausted
eyes turned his way when he broke through the ring of
men huddled around the stove and lurched away. No one
spoke.
He stumbled down the dark aisle between the pine
bunks, pausing beside his own to slip the book of
poems under the folded blanket. Then he moved on
toward the end of the building. To an open doorway;
Tillotson's lamp-lit cubicle.
With a hand that felt like granite, he gripped the
jamb of the door, gulping less poisonous air, and
savoring the heat from Tillotson's stove. Because it
was enclosed by thin walls, the stove -concentrated a
fair degree of heat in the tiny room. Oilcloth
had been tacked over two drafty windows.
Oliver Tillotson glanced up from a copy of
Leslie's. He was about sixty, overweight, but
no weakling even though he was far too old for combat.
He wore a bolstered Colt on his hip. In
front of him on the desk sat a small, cheaply
framed photograph of a dour woman and five
adolescent boys in stiff paper collars and
ill-fitting suits. Next to the group
portrait lay the symbol of authority
Tillotson affected-a stick cut from a walnut
limb; a stick darkened and worn smooth by the
pressure of Tillotson's pudgy fingers.
The stick was two feet long, perhaps three inches in
diameter. Gideon had seen it used on two
officers in the barracks. One had complained
to Tillotson about his arrogance and refused to be
quiet when Tillotson ordered it. The other had
found maggots in a piece of bacon and turned on
the guard, screaming; berserk. Both men
had been beaten, sent to the infirmary, and never seen
again.
As Gideon leaned in the doorway soaking up the
soothing heat, Tillotson frowned. The sergeant
had a red Saint Nicholas face, the effect
enhanced by a neatly trimmed white goatee, white
brows, and hair. There was a deceptively benign
look about him even when he was annoyed, as he was
now:
"You wanted something, Captain?" Tillotson
played games. He knew most of his charges by name
and rank. But he pretended they were indistinguishable
one from another. As, indeed, they usually were:
unwashed, like Gideon; emaciated, like
Gideon; their beards down to mid-chest, like
Gideon's; their eyes half wild and half cowed,
like Gideon's.
"I'd like permission to take a turn outside,"
Gideon said in a voice hoarse from the cold.
Tillotson appeared bemused. "Outside, sir?
But it's wintry-
"It's no better in the barracks." "You Rebs,"
Tillotson sighed. He laid Leslie's
aside. Picked up the walnut stick. Pointed
at the family portrait. "When I go home
weekends, I tell Ethel how you complain. You never
seem happy you're alive rather than dead. My,
it's puzzling."
"Is it, now?" Gideon breathed. "I'm
certainly sorry you're puzzled. Would it help if
I asked whether you eat a decent meal now and then?
Or go to bed under enough blankets so you can sleep eight
hours without waking?"
With his left hand, Tillotson stroked the end of the
stick. "Careful, please, Captain," he said with a
broad smile.
"Major. Major Kent, and you know it." "No, you
all look alike to me." Tillotson shrugged, his
blue eyes maliciously merry. "Just like
the niggers you people have penned up and maltreated for over
two
hundred years. Kent. Kent-oh, yes. Now I
remember. Our dedicated reader. Preparing himself for
better things when the war's over. You received a book
from your Copperhead papa in New York."
Gideon almost swore; fought the oath back.
Tillotson clucked his tongue; shook his head:
"I glanced at that material before I delivered it.
Nonsensical stuff. Filthy! Ethel and her
circle of women at church have discussed that poet.
He should be prohibited. He should be arrested.
You'll never qualify yourself for anything, reading such
swill."
Tillotson was leaning forward, as if offering advice
to a nephew of whom he was fond. All at once,
sarcasm crept in:
"I suppose such material is all right for
Rebs, though. Appropriate to your humbled station.
Sweets to the sweet, but dregs to the dregs,
mightn't we say?"
A vein beat in Gideon's temple. "I asked
for permission to go out, not for a lecture."
"Oh, but you Rebs need lecturing." Tillotson
smiled. "You must be taught not to complain so
much. I can't fathom why you don't like it here."
"Well, it isn't exactly a vacation resort,
is it?"
A hostile look on the Christmas face. "And
I suppose you fancy our Northern boys are
enjoying a holiday in those sinkholes down South?
Libby? Andersonville? I suppose you think
they're resorts compared to this? You don't know when
you're well off, Captain!"
Gideon was seething:
"Major."
Tillotson slashed the stick in a swift arc and
struck the desk, thwack.
"Captain, you're vexing me with your disrespect I
have a position of authority to maintain."
"The only one you've ever had, I expect."
Three rapid blinks and Tillotson's mouth
shaped into a surprised O told Gideon he'd
scored an accidental
hit. The prison was full of incompetents; men
worthless elsewhere. He'd seen a fair number of the
same diskind in the Confederate army. In all
ranks.
But even incompetents would strike out if someone
wounded them:
"Hold your tongue! Remember you're speaking to the
Government! In this barracks, sir, I am just as
important as Mr. Lincoln. More! You'll never
set your traitorous eyes on our President.
You deal with him through me."
Another whack of the stick emphasized the last word.
Then a smile crept back on Tillotson's
jowly face. But there was spleen in it. The spleen
of a man thrust into a position in which a whim, a
change of mind, a word or two could preserve or
ruin other men's lives.
"Am I clear to you, sir?" Tillotson asked.
"When you walk in here, you are dealing with the only
legal government of this nation"
Gideon's forehead slicked with sudden sweat. The
fat, arrogant turd! He'd like to take him by the
throat and-
No! Remember Margaret. Remember the baby.
You've got to come through this whole. If you love them
it's your duty to survive.
He blessed the memory of his wife and child. Without its
sustaining power in that moment when he looked at
Oliver Tillotson basking in the warmth of his
private stove, he might have tried to kill the
man.
"I say, sir, am I clear?"
Gideon answered very softly:
"dear!"
"Then ask again. Briefly and respectfully."
A deep breath. "I am requesting permission
to take a turn outside."
S
Tillotson waved the walnut stick. "Much
better, sir. Much better. Go freeze if you
wish. But please close the door. I neglected
to do it, and I wouldn't want too much
heat escaping into the shed. Brisk temperatures are
healthy for you and your comrades."
"Certainly," Gideon answered. "Everyone out there
is reveling in the healthful cold."
Another venomous glance. "I'm delighted." A
jab of the stick. "Close the door."
With a hand tingling one moment and going numb the next,
Gideon obeyed. Tillotson had already returned
to his reading.

He walked out of the shed, passing between two boys in
blue capes. Each sentry's rifle was equipped
with a bayonet.
The clouds blowing by seemed only a few
hundred feet overhead. Snowflakes swirled
down from them. The bite of the wind made Gideon
feel even worse than before. Almost immediately, his
teeth started to chatter again. He regretted his
decision to venture into the open. The sights outside
the barracks were even more depressing than those within.
Fort Delaware had been built on a treeless
slab of ground several feet below water level.
Stone dikes blocked out the river, obstructing the
view of the Jersey and Delaware shores. The
frozen mud was crisscrossed with ditches that oozed
subterranean water on warm days. And the other sheds
and fenced enclosures stretching around him were packed with
gray men. Gray-garbed, gray-faced,
gray-spirited. Ghosts.
He saw the pale oval of a motionless and sorrowing
face framed in the window of one of the barracks.
Several young boys were tramping up and down in front
of the privates' pen, hugging themselves, stamping their bare
feet. When shoes wore out, no replacements were
issued.
Over near the Delaware side, the chain gang
labored. Sullen, murderous-looking men. The men
hauled large carts full of stones used to repair
the dikes. Teams of two men were roped
to each cart like human beasts of burden. The work of
each team was directed by a guard who sat atop the
stones piled in the cart, unconcerned about adding his
extra weight. Most of the guards were alternately
swearing at their charges and shouting at them to pull
harder.
Gideon weaved toward a group of officers crouched
beside a breathing hole dug out of the mud. There were
similar holes everywhere; he threaded his way between.
One o! the officers turned to acknowledge his
arrival:
"Hallo, Kent. Care to join the hunting party?"
Gideon's stomach flip-flopped. "Thank you,
no."
"Fresh meat and rat soup if we're lucky."
"Jesus, stop," Gideon said, covering his mouth.
He was feeling more nauseated by the moment.
There was a sudden flurry of activity around the
hole. Exclamations of glee. Men hunching forward.
The crunch of rocks on bone, then pulping sounds.
One of the officers laughed, the snow-flecked wind
whipping the sound away quickly.
Another officer, no older than Gideon but with a
beard already pure white, held up the bloody and
still-twitching prize-a plump, hairy
water rat. One of the hundreds that infested the island
and dug their runs under the hard surface.
"Shouldn't be so persnickety, Gideon," said the
officer who'd spoken first. "Doesn't taste half
bad once you're accustomed to it."
The white-bearded officer agreed:
"Like young squirrel, in fact."
But he'd seen cooked rat meat. White;
sickeningly white. He turned away:
"Thanks kindly for the invitation. Another time."
"You'll get hungry enough one of these days."
The devil! Gideon thought, staggering on.
Tillotson had been right. It was too blasted
cold out here.
He noticed a subtle change in the air. Stuck
out his tongue. Caught a droplet of water.
The wind had shifted. A mist was blowing upriver from
the Atlantic. The snowflakes were turning
to freezing rain.
Gideon wiggled his toes inside his cracked
boots. Little sensation. None in one big toe. He
was better off inside.
He hurried, but all it amounted to was an awkward
limp not much faster than his normal walk. As he
approached the shed, a man came shooting
around the corner, leaning into the wind and holding his
flat-crowned black hat on his head.
The man's long gray beard danced on his shoulder,
whipped like the ends of the green and black plaid scarf
wound round and round his throat and the collar of his shabby,
loose-sleeved raglan.
Gideon stepped aside, but tardily. The leather
medical bag in the man's right hand gave his leg a
sound whack.
The man jerked to a halt; squinted.
"Kent! Very sorry. Can't see too well without
my spectacles."
"Morning, Dr. Lemon," Gideon replied,
without annoyance. Dr. Cincinnatus Lemon of
Delaware City was the man who'd listened to his
plea for books, circumvented General
Schoepf"s strict regulations about the frequency
of outgoing and incoming prisoner mail, and posted the
letter to Jephtha.
"Been meaning to come by and look in on you," Dr.
Lemon said in a voice louder than normal. He
was past sixty. His hearing was failing along with his
sight. "Something I wanted to ask."
A sharp look at the barracks sentries. "But not
here." He risked letting go' of his hat
to seize Gideon's arm. "Come along to my
office."
Relieved to have an excuse to stay out of the barracks
a while longer, Gideon nodded. When the two
started away, one of the sentries called, "Just a
minute, Reb."
Dr. Lemon spun. "Just a minute, nothing!
I'll take this prisoner anywhere I please!"
"But, Doctor, he's not allowed out of sight of-was
"He is if I say so. Shut your mouth and go dry
your
ears."
The sentry reddened. "Where are you taking him?"
"Why, I plan to spirit him into my office, squeeze
him into an empty chloroform bottle, and float him
down to the ocean and home to Dixie. Come along,
Kent!"
While they crossed the yard, Lemon complained:
"Damned cheeky farm boys. Farm boys and
doddering old farts, that's all we have on this island.
Sorry to say those categories include me.
Kent, will you hurry up? I'm freezing what
freely translates from the Latin as my arse."
in
A crowded little room in one wing of the
infirmary building served as a communal office for
several full-and spare-time physicians attached
to the fort. The office was nearly as untidy as Dr.
Lemon himself. But it had a stove with plenty of
fuel. Gideon sank onto a stool two feet
from the open door and raised his hands to the blessed warmth.
Lemon flung off his hat, scarf, and raglan and
dumped his satchel on top of them in a corner.
While he fished for his glasses in his patched
frock coat, someone screamed in one of the wards.
Lemon winced.
"Your commander-Stuart-he used to sing a lot,
didn't he?"
"Yes, he did. Why?"
Lemon's spectacles sparkled with the flames from the
stove as he seated himself at a desk strewn with
supply requisitions and patient reports. "I
doubt he'd have been so cheerful about this cursed war if
he'd heard the music I listen to all day."
Gideon massaged his hands. Some of the numbness was
leaving. "I'm afraid I sang right along with
him."
"Damn fools, both of you. Americans killing
Americans. It hardly calls for a cheery
serenade."
"You're right. I decided the same thing after First
Manassas-with a little prodding from the young woman I
married. We should have stopped the war long before it
began. I guess no one knew how."
"They knew. Old men like me-they knew. Some of
'em, anyway. But they didn't have to march off to war
and die. All they had to do was stay home, pound
podiums, and spew slogans. No matter which
side you're on, that's inevitably more popular than
trying to stop the waste of human life. The filthy,
immoral waste of God's gift-was
caret Veined hands brushed aimlessly over the
accumulated papers, as though Lemon couldn't bear
to pick them up. The doctor's shoulders were
permanently stooped, his face weather-darkened and
creased by deep folds and shallow wrinkles.
"I'll tell you what I wanted -"
He stopped in mid-sentence, studying Gideon. The
younger man thought there was rheum in the doctor's
eyes. Lemon whispered:
"Uncanny."
"Pardon?"
Lemon jabbed an index finger between his glasses and his
nose, ridding his right eye of the glistening water.
"I said uncanny. I can never get
accustomed to your appearance."
Gideon tried to smile. "Pretty disreputable,
I admit."
"Not what I meant. Mrs. Lemon and myself, we
have seven daughters and one son. Had one son. You
could be his younger brother. We lost him at
Antietam."
"I'm sorry to hear it."
"You'd be even sorrier if you knew who shot him."
"Who?"
"One of the men in his own damn company. Mistook
him for a Reb."
"Just about what happened to Stonewall Jackson."
"Just about," Lemon agreed glumly. "My boy
took a wound in the chest from a round ball. It
damaged too large an area of lung tissue. A
round ball always does. A conical ball from a
rifled piece would have given him a chance. Cleaner
wound. Less tissue destroyed. Conical balls
are worse in the abdomen, though. Usually perforate
the bowel. The round ball travels more slowly.
Often pushes the bowel aside without harming it. It
had to be a round ball in the lung--from one of his own.
He closed his right hand into a fist and stared at the
desk.
In a few moments he composed himself sufficiently
to eye Gideon again:
"I must say you do look hideous. Not surprised,
though. Here-was
He shot out of the chair, opened one of the glass
doors of a cabinet cluttered with bottles of
pills and tinctures, fished behind them and brought out an
amber flask filled with a dark fluid.
"This'll warm you up. Take a fast swig in
case someone
comes in."
Gideon unstoppered the bottle. Inhaled the
almost-forgotten aroma of whiskey. He tilted the
bottle and swallowed, twice.
"Thank you, Dr. Lemon." He handed it back.
"Hippocrates is no doubt applauding me from the
beyond," Lemon said, ramming the bottle into its hiding
place and slamming the cabinet door. The glass
vibrated.
"I seldom get his congratulations any more. I'm
a disgrace to the profession-because this place is a
disgrace. Oafs like your Sergeant Tillotson
keep sending me patients I don't want, lack
the room to care for, and can seldom save after they're
ministered to by our tender staff of keepers.
I've protested to that damn Hungarian who runs
the island. Think he pays any attention? Pjaughr
Lemon hurled himself back into his chair, the anger
darkening his leathery cheeks. "Mad, this whole
business. Mad! There had to be a more sensible way
to set the nigras free!"
Gideon licked the inside of his upper lip, still
tasting the whiskey. His stomach felt warmer. "I
wish we'd found it," he told the doctor.
"At least some men such as yourself have a chance of pulling
through. You're determined to get out of this infernal
place with your bones and your sanity intact, and start
over."
Gideon smiled wanly. Lemon had no idea
how close he'd come to losing that determination.
"Which brings me to what I wanted to ask. Did
Tillotson -"
A knock. Annoyed, Lemon snapped,
"Yes?"
An orderly in a blood-spotted smock looked
in.
"Oh-Dr. Lemon. I didn't know whether you were
here." He cast a suspicious eye at Gideon.
"What do you want?" Lemon demanded.
"It's about Dunning. In the privates"
pen-?"
Lemon sat very still. "The question in your voice is a
damned insult. I remember every one of my
patients. What about Dunning?"
The orderly fidgeted because Lemon's stare was so
intimidating. "I-I found him this morning. Still
huddled in his usual corner. But-was
"Gone?"
White-faced, the orderly nodded.
"God damn it!" Lemon roared, hurling the whole
pile of papers from the desk with one sweep of his hand.
The orderly backed toward the doorway.
"Get out. Get out! I'll sign the
certificate!" Lemon shouted. The door closed
quickly.
Lemon slumped. Presently he faced Gideon
again:
"And do you know what I'll be forced to write down for
cause of death? Nostalgia."
When Gideon frowned, puzzled, Lemon burst
out, "Homesickness. Nostalgia! The boy was
seventeen years old. For the past five weeks
he's spent every waking hour sitting in a corner.
No speech. Hardly any movement. When I
speak-when I spoke to him, he behaved as
if he didn't hear me, or even knew I was
present. I paid one of those greedy incompetents in
charge of his pen-paid him from my own pocket!-to force
food down him. Wasted effort. Wasted!"
For a moment, Gideon thought Lemon might burst
into tears-or destroy every paper and piece of
furniture in the office.
He did neither, managing to calm himself again. He
removed his glasses to polish them on a clean,
worn pocket kerchief:
"You have your own problems. No need to share mine. But
God Almighty! If only there'd been enough men of
sense to shout down the fire-eaters and the worst of the
abolitionist crowd. Well, what's the use of
speculating? There weren't."
He resettled his spectacles on his nose.
"It's the reading material I wanted to inquire
about. I delivered the parcel to Tillotson.
I've been derelict in asking whether that
exquisite specimen of humanity gave you the
books."
Gideon's ears were buzzing slightly from the warmth
of the office and the sudden effect of liquor on his
nearly empty belly. The last word brought his head
jerking up. With difficulty, he focused
his eyes on the hunched, shabby man at the desk:
"Books? I got one-was
"One only?"
"That's right. Poems by some fellow named Whitan."
"Damn!"
"My father sent you the package?"
"Why not? You said you mentioned my name and position in the
letter I smuggled out for you."
"True, I did, but-was
"I expect he wanted to be certain the books
reached you. I knew I should have brought "em into the pen
personally. Didn't take the time because I had to do
three amputations that morning. But I guarantee there
were more books than one. There were half a dozen.
Books with meat in them. The sort of thing you said you
needed to help educate yourself."
"How do you know there were so many?"
"The parcel had been opened and inspected before it was
delivered to this office. The contents were listed on a
form I had to sign. Let's see-was
An index finger tap-tapped a pile of papers.
"There was a second edition of John Bartlett's
Familiar Quotations. A volume of essays and
poems by Oliver Holmes. Reade's Cloister
and the Hearth-that's a romance. Historical
stuff, but not bad. There was Waldo Emerson's
Conduct of Life. And your father even included
Parson Brownlow's Book published two years
ago. Brownlow's a hard peace maniac from
Tennessee, but I expect your father thought you were man enough
to hear what the shrillest anti-Southern voices are
still saying. The Whitman was the final item in the
package-you got none of the others?"
"None."
"That thief!" Lemon seethed. "That miserable shit
of a thief. Kent, wait! Let me report it
to Schoepf. Don't brace Tillotson yourself,
you'll only damage your chances of getting out of-was
The slam of the door cut off the rest of the warning.
Gideon was barely conscious of the cold as he
reeled into the open, his ears still buzzing and his stomach
aching from the liquor. He crossed the yard in a
limping run, understanding now why so much twine and paper
had been wrapped around a single book.
One of the barracks sentries made a snide
remark about Gideon's kissing the doctor's behind
to obtain favors. He paid to attention. A larger
anger occupied him as he lurched past the armed men.
His blue eyes took on a glazed, almost demented
look as he kicked open the barracks"
door and, a moment later, Tillotson's.
IV
"See here, sir!"
The sergeant leaped up, Leslie's Weekly
drifting to the desk in disordered sheets.
"Who gave you leave to crash in that way? When the
door's closed, the order is knock.""
"You're a thief, Tillotson," Gideon
rasped. "You're a thieving Yankee son of a
bitch."
Tillotson's pink face paled. His eyes
darted, worried. Gideon swayed on his feet,
dizzy from the cold and the alcohol, yet buoyed
by his rage.
"I'll not stand for such profane, insolent talk from
a prisoner," Tillotson warned, raising the
walnut stick hastily plucked from beside the family
photograph.
"You gave me one book! My father sent more. Where
are the rest?"
Tillotson blinked. "The rest? I don't
understand, sir!"
The rest of the books in the package Dr. Lemon
delivered to you!"
"Dr. Lemon?" The way the sergeant
pronounced the name gave it an unclean sound.
"I just saw him."
Tillotson sniffed. "Evidently. Serving spiritous
liquors to prisoners is against the rules of-was
"Shall I fetch him over here to repeat his story?"
Oliver Tillotson eyed the unsteady figure in
front of his desk, calculating Gideon's
physical strength-or lack of it. Then,
surprisingly, he smiled:
"Not necessary. I expected this matter to come up
eventually."
"So you admit it!"
"Why not, sir? You have no voice in what you receive and
what you don't. The other books-decent
literature, I might add-are safe in my house
in Salem. Christmas is coming. The wages
here-well, they're hardly adequate for a man with a
large family. Every bit helps. I let you have one
book, so let's not make an issue of the rest."
"I'm surprised you didn't steal them all!"
"Why, I wouldn't have anything by that Whitman in my
home. He's notorious. A pervert, they say.
We're God-fearing people. But my boys, now-they'll
be delighted to find Reade and the Holmes book under
the tree. "The Chambered Nautilus' is
a first-rate poem. First-rate!"
"You had no damn right-was Gideon began.
"I wouldn't make an issue of it, Major
Kent," Tillotson purred, stroking the stick.
"Leave this office immediately."
The order, and the insulting tone, shattered Gideon's
control. Even as he circled the desk, he knew
he was inviting reprisal. But he couldn't help
himself-and hardly cared.
Before Tillotson could react, Gideon caught the
sergeant's throat in both hands.
The obese man's eyes opened wide a moment,
terrified. Then he lunged upward from his chair,
pushing Gideon. He side-stepped, a wrenching
movement-
"Assistance! Assistance here!"
Bellowing, Tillotson tore loose from
Gideon's strangling grip. In the shed proper,
Gideon heard raised voices-the other
prisoners, wondering about the outcry.
Gideon groped for the sergeant's throat again,
feeling perilously weak. Tillotson brought the
walnut stick arcing toward the side of his head.
A moment after the impact, Gideon's legs
buckled. His cheek raked the corner of the
desk. He fell to his knees; clung to the desk
top with both hands.
"Assistance!" Tillotson screamed, beating the
stick on Gideon's knuckles.
Damn fool, Gideon thought as pain tore along
his forearms. Damn fool to lose your head when you
don't have any strength left.
The door burst open. The guards appeared,
bayoneted rifles at the ready. Tillotson
hit Gideon's knuckles again. Gideon let go
of the desk, sliding sideways.
Tillotson darted around the desk and booted him in
the ribs, twice. Gideon flopped over. Heard
men running.
The sergeant's white hair was disarrayed. "Waldo,
come in! Prentice, stay outside and close the
door. If anyone tries to push by, use the
bayonet. No matter what you hear."
The door shut. Gideon couldn't focus his eyes.
He saw two Saint Nicholas faces, one
lapped over another.
Tillotson crouched down, the stick in one hand. With
his other he seized Gideon's beard and yanked.
Gideon's head jerked up, wrenching a neck
muscle.
Tillotson hung on, wet-lipped, panting.
Gideon lifted his right hand. He could barely bend
his fingers, let alone form a fist. Tillotson
beat his hand down to the floor with two blows.
"Waldo, "kneel on his belly. T"s the
way. Major Kent assaulted me. Assaulted
me. Can you fancy that? It's necessary for us to discipline
him. Oh, yes. Severely!"
The sergeant's figure loomed, distorted, as he
rose and lurched to the open stove. He thrust the tip
of the walnut stick into the flames. Almost instantly,
Gideon smelled burning wood.
"Did you know Major Kent is a student,
Waldo? A reader?" Tillotson's chest heaved;
he was still out of breath from the surprise attack.
"He hopes to improve himself. Wants to be ready
to be welcomed back into the populace when the war's
done. But he's also rebellious. Dangerously so.
I've been too lenient."
The smell of charring wood grew stronger. Gideon
saw a wisp of smoke curling past
Tillotson's sweaty face.
"Too lenient," the big man repeated, smoothing his
small goatee. Outside, Gideon heard a
clamor of questions from the other officers, then the
guard warning them he'd fire if they came any
closer.
Tillotson was at last able to chuckle. "I
believe we should make it somewhat more difficult for
Major Kent to practice his rituals of
self-improvement."
Terrified by a sudden suspicion, Gideon tried
to struggle up:
"You sadistic, fat old-was
Tillotson drew back his right boot, then drove
it forward, kicking Gideon's temple.
His head snapped over-violently. What little
strength he had left drained away. He began
to float in a kind of haze. Tillotson sounded
far off:
"One more such remark, Major, and we'll make it
impossible for you to study. Impossible. I trust that
sort of lesson won't be required. Clamp your
hand on his head, Waldo. Hold him still!"
Then Gideon saw it. The walnut stick. Its
smoothly rounded end glowing red. An inch down, the
wood smoked.
Tillotson dropped to both knees, adding his
restraining hand to the guard's. Gideon tried to wrench
his head away. Failed.,
He felt the heat. He watched the red tip of the
stick grow and grow, like the August sun doubling,
tripling in size. Behind it, Tillotson's
avuncular face glistened with sweat.
Gideon's hand moved unconsciously toward the
wrapped lock of hair in the pocket of his blouse.
He lacked the energy to reach it.
"You were very rash to assault me, sir,"
Tillotson scolded, slipping the heated stick between
his wrist and the guard's.
The second after Gideon's left eyelid closed
reflexively, the stick touched it.
Tillotson put weight on the stick. Gideon
arched his back, the pain nearly unbearable-
The pressure lifted. His spine struck the
floor. He gasped for one good breath; couldn't
seem to fill his lungs. He was too weak to resist
any longer.
Tillotson released his chin and used his free hand
to carefully lift Gideon's left eyelid. The
flesh of the lid was burned; stinking.
"Yes, indeed, you made a mistake, Major.
As that fellow Poe wrote in one of his queer
tales-no one attacks me with impunity. No
one, sir!"
Panting, he jammed the stick against the exposed
eye.
Gideon screamed.
Book Two War Like A Thunderbolt
Enemy at the Gate
AS THE SOUND of Judge Claypool's chaise
faded away, Catherine confronted Serena and
Jeremiah in Rosewood's drive:
"It certainly took you long enough to hide the wagon."
t
"Got dark, ma'am," Jeremiah said quickly,
to prevent an outburst from the girl. "Made the work
of maneuvering the wagon a mite harder." ,
Catherine looked pointedly at her stepdaughter's
bedraggled dress. "If that's all you did. Work."
Before Serena could retort, the older woman turned
to Maum Isabella. "I expect we'd better
heed the judge's advice. You and the house girls
empty the sour mash jugs in the larder. Pour out every
drop. The wines and cordials in the
sideboard-get rid of those too."
At last Serena had a chance to retaliate:
"Even your favorite blackberry?"
"Everything."
"You mean to say you can get along without it for
more than twenty-four hours?"
Catherine stayed calm. "I can. Go help the
girls." -- Serena's eyes mirrored the fire
smearing the horizon. "That's nigger's work!"
"It's our work now. You do it."
"Blast it, I won't!"
Catherine stepped forward, digging her fingers into her
stepdaughter's shoulder. Serena wrenched away.
For a moment Jeremiah saw pure enmity in the eyes
of both women.
But Catherine wouldn't be denied. She grabbed her
stepdaughter again. Serena winced. Her right hand
fisted. Jeremiah thought she might strike out.
Catherine stared her down. Maum Isabella
stepped up to Serena's side and touched her gently:
"Come on, Miz Serena. The work won't take
long."
"I'll be glad to lend a hand-was Jeremiah began.
But Catherine shook her head:
"I want you out here with me. We've got to keep
watch."
Serena's height gave her a certain advantage
over her stepmother. But Catherine's will offset any
physical difference between them. Catherine's will-and
Catherine's eyes. With a disgusted
exclamation, Serena flounced into the house. Maum
Isabella followed, carrying the lamp.
Catherine walked a short way down the piazza.
The distant firelight falling through the cypresses
made a lattice of light and shadow on her
cheeks. In a polite voice, she asked:
"Would you fetch a couple of chairs out here,
Jeremiah? We might as well be comfortable while
we wait."
He went into the house, hearing muttered complaints
above the clink of glassware in the dining room.
Serena rebelling-even as she did what she'd been
ordered to do. As a kind of soothing counterpoint,
Maum Isabella kept up a running patter of
talk.
Jeremiah carried the chairs out one at a time,
arranging them a yard to the right of the dark open windows
of the sitting room. Catherine settled herself
gracefully.
He took a place beside her, checking to make sure
the sheathed knife Vas secure in his boot, and the
hilt tugged up enough to be easily grasped in a
hurry. Noticing Catherine's quizzical look,
he explained:
"Just seeing to my knife. We may need it
soon."
"You've been saying we wouldn't."
"I know. But the stories keep getting worse.
Now there's that fire-I thought the burnings would
surely stop."
Catherine's nod was slow; grave. In contrast to her
firmness with her stepdaughter, she looked almost beaten
now. Her shoulders slumped. She stared down the
lane of live oaks toward the highway. Finally,
grasping the arms of the chair as if to draw strength from
them, she said:
"For the moment let's try to forget General Sherman.
I sent Serena inside because I wanted to speak
privately about another matter. One that's very
important. To you."
Her faint intonation of warning set him on edge.
Guardedly, he replied:
"What is it?"
He already suspected the subject and wished he were
somewhere else.
Her first sentence proved his suspicion was
correct:
"It shouldn't have required so much time to hide the
wagon."
"Mrs. Rose, I told you-the darkness was
a handicap. We-was
"Spare me your fibs, Jeremiah," she broke in
softly. "I'm not angry. You're too young to know
what you're doing. Or, rather, what's being done to you."
He bristled. His tiredness, and the tumultuous
emotions Serena had aroused pushed him close to anger
again. Catherine kept gazing at the red-tinged oaks
while she continued:
"I dislike raising indelicate subjects. But
I feel I must. I've noticed a change in
Serena's attitude toward you. A very rapid and
abrupt change. You don't lack intelligence.
Surely you've noticed it as well?"
A nod admitted it.
"Do you know the reason for it?"
"I have an idea. "Tell me." "No, ma'am.
You tell me."
"Isn't it obvious? She's discovered you're not a
poor boy. In fact I expect you've more
wealth-and if we survive this war-better
prospects for the future than the half-dozen beaux
Serena's had since she was dismissed from Christ
College. No, please don't interrupt. I
must say this while there's time. Young men in the
neighborhood know Serena's character. Oh,
she's charming to the eye. But those same young men- before
they all went off to the army-Jeremiah, there wasn't
one among them who called more than three or four
times. Her behavior shocked them. I feel
un-Chrisian saying this about my late husband's child.
But-was A shrug. He knew she wasn't telling the
truth. She loathed Serena as much as Serena loathed
her.
"comb it's for your own benefit. I was a teacher, you
know. I've worked with young people. You think you're grown,
but you're not, Jeremiah. You're still- unshaped.
Malleable. You must understand one fact above all."
A long sigh. "Serena is-not possessed of a stable
temperament."
Catherine turned in her chair and gazed directly
into his eyes:
"Do you understand what I'm attempting to say?" He
wanted to swear; wanted to curse her for speaking against
the girl who'd roused such intense feelings within him.
He restrained the impulse and settled for a
deprecating laugh:
"Think so. But my own mother used to say as much about
me."
Catherine shook her head. "I can't believe that."
"Oh, yes, ma'am. She did. She
claimed my brothers and I all inherited what she
called a cussed streak. We got it from our
great-grandmother, a Virginia lady named Fletcher."
"Well, you don't strike me as cussed, as you
call it. Just very young. Very susceptible to-was
Another pause. Somewhere inside, perhaps in the hall,
he thought he heard a footstep.
"comto feminine ways."
Catherine leaned toward him.
"I'm deeply appreciative of what you've done
for us, Jeremiah. Just your presence-a male
presence-has been a great comfort. And the loyalty
to my late husband that brought you here is commendable. But
the moment the trouble's over-the moment the Yanks are
gone and it's safe for you to travel, you must leave.
I won't repay you by allowing you to become-entangled
with Serena. You're a decent young man. But still-was
A gesture.
was ... malleable."
Suddenly there was a raw sound to her voice:
"I tried to raise her well! But Henry favored
her too much. Overruled my discipline constantly!"
Because you despised her real mother, and he tried to make
up for it?
He didn't utter the question aloud. But he
was becoming convinced Catherine Rose was striking back
at a dead woman through her child.
"I hope you do understand what I'm trying to say,
Jeremiah. I'm worried that you'll allow Serena
to- Again she searched for words. "comto exert 'an
influence you're too inexperienced to resist."
His resentment had become overwhelming:
"Ma'am, I'm fully old enough to look out for-
She refused to let him finish:
"I won't be so rude as to subject you to questions about
why you took such an unusual amount of time hiding the
wagon. Or why Serena came back so disarrayed.
Frankly, I don't need to ask. I simply
want to beg you to leave as soon as you can. I've
seen the way you look at her. She's a handsome
girl, I don't deny
that. But there are-depths to her that you can't begin to perceive
after such a short acquaintance. She has traits in
common with her mother. She's greedy. Lewd. She-was
The momentary compression of Catherine's lips
pronounced final judgment even before she finished the
sentence.
"comshe is not moral." A whisper then. ""Not a
moral person. All the young gentlemen who called
soon realized it."-
Jeremiah exploded:
"Mrs. Rose, I can't believe you care so little
about your own stepdaughter!"
Catherine didn't take offense. "I told you I
tried. For years! Finally I saw the truth I'd
been attempting to avoid. That's why I wouldn't
want Serena-associated permanently with a person
I liked or respected. And I like and respect
you."
One hand reached out, clasping his fingers. The
pressure was intense.
"Leave her alone, Jeremiah. For your own
sake."
The almost frantic clutch of Catherine's fingers
repelled him. Without realizing it, he'd become
Serena's partisan. It had happened, he
supposed, during the frenzied kissing and fumbling an
hour ago.
"Jeremiah?"
"What?"
"Give me your promise you'll leave when you can."
"No, ma'am, I can't do that."
"Why not?"
How could he confront her with the fact that she'd become
suspect on several counts? There was her
talk of Christianity and kindness coupled with her
hypocrisy about taking wine. There was the old
animosity toward Rose's first wife he'd learned
about from Serena. And most of all, there was this quiet,
venomous attack.
He couldn't explain those reasons. Much as he
resented
all she'd said, and knowing disfull well that Serena's
new interest was most likely caused by the money, he
still couldn't turn on Mrs. Rose. She'd treated
him well. Perhaps she'd convinced herself she was still doing
so.
"Jeremiah-why not?"
He was rescued when Catherine jerked around in her
chair to face the highway. Almost at once he
caught the sound too. A lowing and bleating-out there in the
darkness.
Then, muffled but unmistakable, the ragged rhythm of
marching.
Catherine leaped up. "There's livestock on the
road!"
"And men," he said, as she gathered up her skirts
and ran along the piazza:
"If it's the Yanks, they aren't going to set foot
on this property!"
All at once she was gone, dashing wildly down the
lane between the live oaks whose trunks showed faint
redness on their western sides.
backslash
ii
Jeremiah didn't follow her. He was too
stunned and upset by her attack on Serena.
The lowing and bleating and out-of-cadence tramp of boots
grew steadily louder. Finally he drove himself
into motion. Left the piazza; took three strides
across the drive.
"God damn her vile tongue!"
He whirled.
Serena stood in the main doorway.
*

He might not have existed; the girl paid no attention
to him. She gazed down the lane where Catherine had
vanished. She was trembling.
Suddenly she riveted her eyes on his. He
almost cringed at the hate he saw.
"I went into the sitting room to hunt for one last
decanter."
She needed to say nothing more. He remembered the open
windows not far from the chairs and the sound of a
furtive footstep.
Serena's knuckles were white as she gripped the
jamb. "You're not going to listen to her, are you? I'm
not half so wicked as she wants you to think!" She
beat a fist against the wood. "Sometimes I wish one
of those Yanks would come around here and kill her!"
Jolted, he exclaimed, "My God, you don't
mean that!"
She covered her eyes. "No. No. But-she
makes me so blasted mad backslash was
She rushed forward. "Jeremiah, she's detested me
since the day she married Papa. You know why? Because
she detested my mania's reputation. She felt that
having me around all the time soiled her-even though I
never did anything to make her feel that way!"
The girl seized his shoulders. "If you listen to her-
to those vicious stories she makes up-it'll ruin
everything!"
Excited by her touch, he started to ask her to explain
exactly what would be ruined.
Laughter-raucous male laughter-burst out down by the
gate. For a moment he'd forgotten the strangers on
the road. The laughter reminded him.
He spun, his heart hammering, just as Catherine's
faint cry of protest rang out.
"I think the Yanks are here. I have to go.".
"No. You wait!"
"Serena-was
"You wait! This is too important." Her
urgency, and her hand, held him at her side.
"Jeremiah, you have to trust me. It's important
to me
that you do. I don't want you to think I'm the sort
of person she says. 'Course I've flirted with
boys. I admit it. Maybe I've even done more
than flirt. But never anything truly wrong.
Never! The rest-anything you thought I meant back in
the woods-that was teasing. I'm not experienced."
Tears glistened in her eyes. "That was all teasing.
Dumb, idiotic teasing!"
"Can I believe you?"
"Yes-and I want you to-I do!" She pressed
against him.
But he asked what needed asking:
"What's the reason, Serena? The money?"
"I'd be a ninny to say no. Any girl's
anxious for a good catch. But that isn't the only
reason. If you were eighty years old and rich as
Midas, I wouldn't look at you. Not for a
minute."
Relief flooded through him. She'd caught him off
guard by being so candid about the inheritance. What lingered
to bother him was her claim of inexperience. The
implication of cha/y. Did he dare believe that-
much as he wanted to-after what had happened in the
pines?
Catherine's faint cry sounded again Someone had hold
of the bell rope. Clang!
"Serena, I can't wait any longer!"
Clang! Clang! The bell raised echoes across
the smoky countryside. He gave the girl a last
anguished look and ran for the road. Ran toward the
woman who needed his help. Ran from the girl he
wanted against all doubt and reason-
She is not moral.
That was a damning accusation. But where did the guilt,
the immorality really lie? Who had been honest about
her change of heart?
Serena.
Who had belittled-condemned-the very child she'd raised. And
done it secretively?
Catherine.
The balance tipped, heavily and finally, in favor
of the girl who'd stirred fierce new longings with her
mouth, her hands, her body.
His long tawny hair streamed behind him as he raced
down the lane beneath the festoons of tillandsia.
Ahead, he saw a lantern bobbing like an immense
firefly. He glimpsed men and livestock.
Heard an altercation growing louder and more
acrimonious.
SHE IS NOT MORAL.
For an instant, he was unsure of his decision.
Then, equally swiftly, he was ashamed of the doubt.
Above all, he wanted to believe Serena..
And he couldn't flee-not later, and certainly not now.
Directly ahead, where the lantern's yellow light
paled in a sudden drift of smoke, he saw the
boisterous Yanks.
iv
By the time he reached the closed white gate,
Catherine had taken possession of the rope dangling
from the bell post just inside. Two companies of
scruffy, bearded men in Union blue had halted
on the highway. The column of uneven ranks had
come along the straight stretch leading out of the dense
forest separating Rosewood from the Jesperson farm,
which had evidently been torched. Thick, pungent
smoke drifted from that direction.
In the cornfield on the highway's far
side, a herd of about two dozen cattle and as many
sheep milled. By the lantern's light, Jeremiah
could just discern ragged drovers prodding the cattle into a
steadily shrinking circle. The drovers" shouts and
profanity were loud in the night air.
The soldiers outside the fence jabbered at one
another in a guttural foreign language.
Jeremiah supposed they
must be some of the Dutchmen serving with the Northern army.
Among the miscellany of arms they carried he
spied several of the new Spencer rifles. The
deadly repeaters held seven balls and could be
fired every three of four seconds by a practiced
hand. He'd seen one of the pieces, captured after
Chickamauga. Lieutenant Colonel Rose
had once remarked that the Spencer's rapid-fire
capability would give the Yanks a final,
decisive advantage in the war.
Some of the Union men had other, more unusual
equipment with them; spades and axes, slung over
shoulders or trailing in the dust. The lantern held
by a burly sergeant with a bad complexion revealed the
team and driver of a white-topped wagon stopped in
the dark to the left. Some nigras clustered around the
front of the wagon, clapping and joking.
Jeremiah counted five- and was relieved that Price
was not among them.
One of the nigras wore a top hat and an
emerald-colored frock coat. The young woman with the
group was gowned in shimmering orange silk.
Undoubtedly the clothing had been stolen from a former
master and mistress.
Beside the sergeant with the lantern stood two officers.
One, the senior, was a square-faced, middle-aged
man with mild brown eyes and a ragged uniform
blouse. Hovering close to him, a younger lieutenant
with a pointed chin eyed Jeremiah and wiped the heel of
his right palm with the tips of his fingers. The nervous hand
hovered beside the butt of his bolstered revolver.
The older man addressed Catherine in heavily
accented English:
"Captain Franz Poppel, madam. This advance
party of engineers is widening and corduroying roads
for General Sherman's army."
"You mean you're going to tear up the highway?"
"No, this road is adequate. However-was
"Road work isn't all you're doing!" Catherine
ex
190The Warriors
claimed, pointing to the cornfield.
"You're stealing livestock from civilians too!"
Poppel acknowledged guilt with a blush and bob of his
head. The sharp chinned lieutenant turned to her,
eyes flinty:
"What we do is our business."
Poppel held up a hand. "Lieutenant Stock
means we are under orders to forage according to our
requirements."
The lieutenant refused to be silenced. "This your
property, woman?"
"Would I be down here if it weren't?"
"Show a little more respect, if you please," the
lieutenant snapped, taking two swift strides
to the fence. He reached across, caught Catherine's
upraised arm-her hand was still on the bell rope-and
jerked it down against the top rail of the fence.
The rope danced. The bell pealed. The lieutenant
levered Catherine's arm down harder:
"Else we'll teach you how."
"Stock!" Poppel exclaimed as Catherine's
body twisted. She was in pain, but she didn't cry
out.
Captain Poppel moved too slowly to get between his
lieutenant and Catherine. So this is what we're
going to be up against? Jeremiah thought
bitterly, bending down fast to reach the top of his
boot. He hadn't forgiven Catherine for her
remarks about Serena. But she was still a woman.
"Secesh there-he's got a knife!" the sergeant
cried.
The lantern began to swing wildly as the man
retreated. Jeremiah's hand streaked up, the knife
flashing light from pitted steel. Two long steps and
he was at the fence.
His left hand shot out like a hook to catch the startled
lieutenant by the back of the neck. The
lieutenant's grip broke. Catherine scrambled
away.
Jeremiah jerked the lieutenant forward. Off
balance,
.
the man fell, the side of his head slamming the
rail. Jeremiah held the man's head against the
rail with one hand, andwiththe other slid the edge of the
knife against Stock's throat:
"You've mauled Mrs. Rose the first and last time."
His voice was soft, but his mouth had set in that thin,
cruel line.
Bent at the waist, the lieutenant tried to free his
revolver with his right hand.
"Go on, get the gun!" Jeremiah whispered. He
dug the knife-edge deeper. "What's holding you?"
A thread of blood began to trickle toward
Lieutenant Stock's collar. There were alarmed
exclamations from the ranks. Jeremiah was aware of a
blue barrel aimed at his head. Then a dozen more.
"They fire," he warned Poppel, "your man's
done."
Stock and the captain realized he meant it.
Stock's hand dropped away from his holster. His
eyes watered.
"Madam," Poppel exclaimed to Catherine,
"beg your son not to provoke this kind of trouble!"
"He's not my son-was she began.
"Shoot the fucking Secesh!" a soldier shouted.
Other men yelled agreement.
Sweating, Jeremiah held the knife steady against
Stock's quivering throat. "Yes, feel free,"
he told Poppel. "I guarantee you'll lose
one engineer. It's up to you."
Invasion
"NO FIRING!" Poppel exclaimed, facing the
road. "That is an order!" He spun
to Jeremiah. "Let him go."
"So your boys can pick me off? No
thank you."
Poppel swabbed his face with his sleeve. "What do
you want?"
"Your promise," Jeremiah answered. "Not to touch
this woman again. Not to harm this property or anyone
on it."
"We intend to camp on your land tonight-was Poppel
began.
"Inside the gate," Jeremiah said with a jerk of his
head. "Under the trees. Nowhere else."
"Captainea"com" Stock panted, "don't take
orders from a goddamn boy backslash was
"This is my responsibility-not yours," Poppel
replied. A nervous flick of his eyes toward
Jeremiah. His tongue crept over his perspiring
upper lip. Then he nodded.
"All right. Stock should not have mistreated her. I
agree to the terms. We will camp on your land but will not
intrude on your privacy. In the morning we will
move on. We'll require provisions, however.
Corn.
Pigs."
"We're supposed to surrender our food just because you
say so?" Catherine blazed.
Captain Poppel pointed at the ranks
of men. Jeremiah
saw the blue muzzles still poised. Saw hostile
faces behind them. A nervous finger could blow him
away-
"These are hungry men. We take nothing our
orders prohibit us from taking. I will make certain
no property is harmed. But I insist on
provisions. And," he added to Jeremiah, "that
knife."
Suddenly the strain wrenched his face. "Trust me!
Else one of those men is liable to shoot you down."
"Can I rely on your word?" Jeremiah asked,
searching the captain's face.
"On my word, and on this."
Poppel drew his own revolver. To his soldiers
:
"After the young man gives me the knife, the first one
who moves against him or the woman, I shoot. Now
put the rifles down."
Grumbles; cursing.
"Put them down!"
Slowly, the blue muzzles lowered. Jeremiah
studied Poppel again, trying to assess the man's
honesty. He thought he could trust him. It was a
risk, but the alternative was far less
attractive. Wounded or killed, he'd be no
use to Catherine and Serena.
"Now let him go," Poppel said.
Jeremiah released the lieutenant's head and
pulled the edge of the knife away from his bleeding
throat.
The lieutenant's eyes were murderous. But before his
fingers reached the butt of his revolver, Poppel
cocked his:
"Hands down, Stock. We struck a bargain."
Stock fumed. Poppel extended his other hand.
"The knife now, young man."
He wanted to believe Poppel was decent; not
lying. Catherine's expression seemed to urge him
to cooperate. "I promise you will not be harmed!"
Poppel cried.
"We-was Catherine's voice sounded unsteady.
"comWe'll
rely on this officer's word, Jeremiah. Give him
the knife."
He dropped the blade into Poppel's palm and
stepped
194The Warriors
back. The captain exhaled loudly, relieved.
His gun remained centered on a button
on Lieutenant Stock's blouse.
"Very good. Form up the men, Stock." When the
lieutenant hesitated, Poppel roared, "Go!"
Stock swabbed his neck with a bandana, pivoted, and
stalked toward the grumbling soldiers.
"You wait till we leave!" a soldier shouted at
Jeremiah and Catherine. "You'll be rooting around in
ashes!"
Red-faced, Poppel whirled: "Be quiet! We
do not burn private property."
"Then-was Catherine pointed shakily toward the heavy
forest to the left. "comwho fired the Jesperson farm?"
"Not my soldiers," Poppel replied. "With one
or two exceptions, these are decent men. They have
wives. Families. Homes of their own. I
personally guarantee their good conduct.
Unfortunately I cannot guarantee the manner in which
this entire campaign is being waged. There are some
units that act without restraint. However, mine is not
one. Now may we come onto your land?"
Catherine sighed. "All right."
Poppel bobbed his head again, crisply. "We will
camp under those trees. No one will enter the house
except myself and my sergeant. I am required
to search the premises for concealed arms and
ammunition."
Out by the men, Stock shouted, "If that Secesh boy
says different, we'll blow his damned head off."
The statement was meant more for the troops than
Jeremiah. Shouts of agreement in German
greeted it Poppel whirled again, angry. The
noise faded while Jeremiah stood with his hands
clenched, hoping he hadn't gambled wrongly.
Catherine's eyes begged him for restraint. He
decided threats couldn't really hurt him. What
mattered was the captain's ability to exert his
authority and enforce his
was I
pledge; there seemed no lack of such ability. The
Dutchmen were all avoiding Poppel's fierce
eyes.
Catherine stood back from the gate.
"Open it for them, Jeremiah."
Some of Jeremiah's tension drained away. In
reply to Catherine's instruction, the captain
murmured, "Thank you, madam."
Jeremiah reached for the pin. Despite Judge
Claypool"s reports of devastation and
Poppel's remarks about disorderly troops, perhaps
a little hope was justified after all. If
men like Poppel proved to be in the majority,
maybe the Yank march across Georgia might not be
so savage and disgraceful as rumor said it was.

He and Catherine stood back while a still-fuming
Lieutenant Stock led the first soldiers into the
lane.
Others followed quickly, spreading out beneath the oaks on
either side. Poppel still had his revolver drawn as
he waited beside Catherine and Jeremiah, alert
to any signs of disobedience. There were sullen looks;
angry remarks in German. But no attempted
violence. Poppel's assertiveness and decency had
taken the heat out of the situation. Under the trees, some
of the soldiers were actually laughing.
The last of the men in blue passed. The noisy
blacks started to follow. Catherine whirled to the
officer:
"I insist you keep the nigras off the property!"
Poppel shook his head. "I can't do that, madam.
They are free to go comwith us wherever they choose.
However, I'll order them not to approach the house."
Flushed, Catherine watched the blacks going by.
All at once her eyes opened wide. She
recognized the yellow-skinned girl in the
orange gown:
"Nanny? Nanny, why aren't you with Mrs. Hodding
in town?"
was "Cause I don't belong to Miz Hodding no
more," the girl spat. "I belong to me backslash
Linkum and Uncle Billy both say so!"
"You ran away?"
"Walked away! I'm free now."
"But Mrs. Hodding has no one to care for her. No
one except you."
A shrug. "Too bad."
"Is she all right?"
The girl grinned. "Mighty fine. Last I seen
her, she was sittin" in a chair in her parlor with a
nice little round hole in her forehead."
Catherine swayed. "Oh, my God. Why?"
"She got bumptious with some of the sojers in town.
Somebody took a gun an' fixed her. Wasn't
me, but I wish it had been. Miz Hodding laid a
rod on me plenty of times. She sold off my little
baby boy when he only five! Wouldn't even let
me name him Francisais like I wanted. Made
me call him Robert Rhett, same as some old
Secesh up in Carolina she admired. She had it
comin' to her." The grin reappeared. "You
better be careful too."
Linking her arm with that of a laughing young buck, Nanny
hurried on up the lane. Captain Poppel
looked embarrassed. "There have been regrettable
incidents."
"Do you really regret them?" Jeremiah shot
back.
"Believe it or not, young man, I do.
Admittedly, some on our side don't. Sometimes
war becomes a handy excuse for behavior that
otherwise would never be tolerated. Stock's a
prune example. But I doubt every man in
Confederate gray is above reproach either. However,
I have given my word that no such incidents will take
place here. Of course, you must continue
to cooperate-was
"What choice do we have?" Catherine responded in
a
bitter voice as the wagon creaked into the lane and the
soldiers flung themselves down among the trees,
yawning and chattering in their foreign tongue.

By midnight the grass under the live oaks glimmered
with dozens of small lights. The Union soldiers
had speared their bayonets into the ground and
stuck stubs of candles in the rings.
Catherine had permitted three of Poppel's men
to take a pair of hogs from the pen, shoot them, and
haul them down the lane. The dead animals had
been hacked up by two of the Germans who knew
something about butchering. The hogs were roasting now, on
spits improvised from bayonets and branches.
The smell of roasting pork drifted up to the
piazza. A couple of dozen of the plantation
blacks had gathered in the driveway, awed by the
sight of some of their own kind mingling freely with the
Yanks. But Maum Isabella's presence kept
the watchers in line. Several times, a stern warning
prevented one or two from running down to join the
visitors.
Catherine had returned to her chair. Jeremiah
stood nearby, tense and tired. Just as he was
wondering where Serena had disappeared to, Captain
Poppel and his burly sergeant approached. The
sergeant waited in the drive, eyeing a couple of the
black women, while Poppel moved down through the
shadows cast by the lattices.
"Madam?"
"My name is Mrs. Rose. You can at least be
civil enough to use it."
"Of course. My apologies. I must trouble you for
your keys."
"Keys?"
"Yes, I'm instructed to open any locked
rooms"
chests, cupboards, and the like. To conduct a search for
those arms I mentioned."
"You took my knife," Jeremiah said. "We
didn't have anything else."
Fatigue edged Poppel's voice with irritation:
"You will permit me to make that determination."
Catherine stood up. "I'll get the keys for you."
She vanished inside the house. Captain Poppel
tried to be cordial to Jeremiah:
"What's your last name, young man?"
"Kent."
"A Georgian, are you?"
"Virginian."
"Then how is it that you're on this plantation?"
"Mrs. Rose's husband was my commanding officer.
He was killed. When I was invalided out, I came
to Rosewood to look after things."
"Praiseworthy," Poppel murmured. "Most
men would have fled to wherever they could find safety. Where
were you when you were hit?"
"Jonesboro."
"Come now, it's not necessary to be so curt. This is a
dirty business, and I don't like it any better
than you. I did not leave my own farm to wage war
on civilians. Are you the only man on the
place?"
"The only white man," Jeremiah responded,
less testily.
"Well, it's good you are here. Some of the units
following us-I did not care to be explicit in
front of Mrs. Rose-they, are totally out of
control. Men are constantly breaking ranks.
Running off to loot and-and other things. Stock would do
so if I permitted it. May I ask whether there
are any white women besides Mrs. Rose
present?"
"Her stepdaughter."
"Is she attractive?" .
"What the hell difference does that make?"
"Answer me, if you please!" Poppel erupted.
"I am worn out and not in good humor. You caused
me a considerable amount of trouble down at the gate-was
He drew a deep breath. "I was merely asking the
question to be of help. If the young woman is good
looking, and other units stop here, there could
be-difficulties."
Jeremiah let out a long breath. "Well, I'm
sorry I blew off a minute ago. You seem
to be sticking by your bargain."
An offended tone: "Did you think I would not?"
"I hoped you would." Fervently: "More than you can
appreciate." Jeremiah rolled his shoulders
forward. Twisted his head from side to side.
Suppressed a yawn. "Lord, I'm tired."
"Quite understandable," Poppel nodded.
"Captain, considering what you said about more soldiers
coming, maybe you could return my knife. It's all
I have to defend this place."
"There's no defending possible, Mister Secesh,"
another voice interrupted in a laconic way. The
heavyset sergeant had strolled onto the piazza and
was leaning against one of the lattices. Jeremiah heard
wood crack. The sergeant didn't move, adding:
"Uncle Billy's going all the way to the ocean.
We got this whole fucking state by the tail."
"That's quite enough, Meister," Poppel said. "Stay
where I put you-in the drive!"
Scowling, the sergeant stalked off. When he was out of
earshot, Poppel leaned close:
"I gave your knife to Stock. A
souvenir to promote his cooperation. Have you ever led
men?"
"No."
"Well, it is not entirely a matter of force and
bluster. Sometimes you must drive them, but sometimes you
must also appease themst I have learned that with
difficulty. Now concerning your question-was
Catherine reappeared, key ring jingling. She'd
evidently
retired to remove the ring from the bag tied under her
skirts. She handed the keys to Poppel and
returned to her chair:
"Search all you want. Just don't touch personal
things."
"I'll go with him," Jeremiah offered.
He'd spoken loudly enough for the sergeant to hear. The
man exclaimed, "Hell, no. You got no say
in this!"
Again Poppel's upraised hand stopped him:
"Meister, shut your mouth. He may come."
IV
For an hour the three ranged the house and surrounding
area, Jeremiah holding a lamp while the sergeant
guarded him with a drawn revolver and Poppel
unlocked drawers in the office, trunks
in the attic, and the new padlocks on the
outbuildings. Presently Jeremiah grew less
uneasy. Poppel was acting with great restraint.
In the attic, for example, he discovered the thousand
dollars' worth of Confederate bills and the legal
papers in the trunk. He examined everything, but
replaced all the items carefully and saw that the
trunk was once again locked. Again Jeremiah began
to feel a touch of optimism. If Poppel
proved to be the harshest officer with whom they had
to deal, honorable treatment of the women of Rosewood
might not be such a farfetched idea after all.
Sometime after one in the morning, Poppel completed his
search and dismissed the sergeant. The captain confessed
to a thirst for coffee. He and Jeremiah headed for the
house while the sergeant trudged back toward the
campsite, where the little candles still flickered in
bayonet rings, and loud voices sang a marching
song:
"Hurrah, boys, hurrah!
"Down with the traitor, up with the star!"
In the kitchen, Jeremiah was surprised to discover
Serena seated at the table, a cup of tea in front
of her. The Union captain swept off his dusty
campaign hat; even bowed:
"Madam. Franz Poppel."
"Miss Serena Rose, Captain," Jeremiah
said.
"Delighted!" the captain said. Serena didn't
reply.
"Where've you been?" Jeremiah asked her.
"In my room." A glance at Poppel.
"Couldn't stand to watch any damn Yankees pawing
through everything."
"Captain Poppel's been very decent,"
Jeremiah countered, moving around Maum Isabella
who was tending the huge iron stove. A spicy
smell rose from the oven. "You baking gingerbread?"
"That's right," the tiny black woman answered. "I
figured that if we give the soldiers a little something
extra, they might go away and leave us be."
"We'll go away in any case," Poppel
nodded. "But I'm grateful for the kindness." His
eyes rested briefly on Serena's profile.
"There are many more men coming, however."
The girl looked at Jeremiah. But he was too
weary to interpret whatever she meant to ask or
imply. Poppel continued to shoot covert looks
at her while Maum Isabella brought the coffee
to a boil, poured a mug, and set it down
on the table with a faintly insolent thud.
Abruptly, Serena excused herself and left.
"I wonder if Mr. Kent and I might have a word
in private?" Poppel asked the black woman.
Expressionless, Maum Isabella walked out.
Poppel sat down. No one had offered him a seat
before.
"That red-haired girl-she's quite handsome."
Jeremiah managed a smile. "I don't need a
Yank to tell me that."
Poppel craned around, looking through the doorway
leading to the front of the house. He took another
sip of coffee, then leaned forward.
"Permit me to make you an offer, Mr. Kent."
"What kind of offer?"
"Kindly keep you voice down! Mrs. Rose-she
is handsome but not young. However, that redhead-was Tired as
he was, the captain could still sigh
appreciatively. "Lovely. Now listen
carefully. I was quite serious when I said there are
undisciplined men with the army. And I cannot return
your knife. However, in the morning, I will go up to the
attic again. For one more search."
"You already searched it top to bottom!"
"Young man, are you witless?"
"I'm worn out. I don't know what the hell
you're saying."
Another swift look toward the door. "Up in the
attic, I can hand you a spare revolver I happen
to have in my kit. You should keep it hidden. Because of that
girl."
"I see. I'm sorry I was so thick."
"No matter." Poppel waved. "We have reached
an understanding. I would not want anything on my
conscience. Such as leaving you wholly unprotected
caret should other units pass this way."
He drained the mug. "I have two daughters of my
own back in Missouri, you see. Sixteen and
eighteen. If our positions were reversed, yours and
mine, I hope you would do as I am doing."
"Yes, sir, I'd try."
"The attic, then. Tomorrow morning. But if you reveal
a word of my offer to anyone, I withdraw it."
He stood, picked up his dusty hat, and clumped
out of the kitchen. Belatedly, Jeremiah called after
him:
"Captain? Thank you."
A slight hesitation in the captain's step showed the
words had been heard.
At dawn, Captain Franz
Poppel's woodcutters and road builders
assembled on the highway while the drovers prodded
the confiscated livestock to their feet in the field
where they'd bedded for the night.
A portion of the white fence separating the plantation from
the road had been smashed by the soldiers, but there was
no other visible damage. Two more hogs were hauled
from the pens, shot, and their carcasses trussed and
flung into the white-topped cook wagon. Corn from
one of the cribs was loaded next. Then Poppel
staged his little show; announced a search of a corner of the
attic he claimed to have overlooked. No help
needed; he would see to it personally.
Alone with Jeremiah, Poppel slipped his hand beneath
his blouse. He drew out a stained rag wrapped
around something with the unmistakeable contours of a
revolver. He pulled the rag away, revealing the
dirt-speckled gun.
"Take it, Kent. It's a rebel piece
anyhow."
The attic was dark and warm; Jeremiah was sweating.
Gingerly, he lifted the revolver from Poppel's
palm.
The gun measured about thirteen inches, muzzle
to butt, and had seen hard use. The feel
of the metal sent a shiver up his back. For the first time
since he'd awakened to find Price standing over him,
he felt whole again.
"Where'd you get this, Captain?"
"I confiscated it at Resaca. From a dead
man."
"Never seen one like it."
"Imported model. A Kerr piece,
.44-caliber. We do not use them."
Squinting, Jeremiah examined the cylinder.
"Five-shot. Four shots left.
"None in the chamber, of course. It's double-action,
by the way. I am sorry I have no spare
ammunition."
"Four shots are better than none."
"I advise you to hide it well," Poppel said.
Jeremiah pondered a moment, then began to roam through
the attic's clutter. At every step he tested the
planking by putting his weight on his right leg. At
last, back in a corner, he discovered a loose
board.
He knelt; tugged at one edge. The pegs had
rotted. The end of the board lifted easily. He
slipped the Kerr .44 down between the joists, then
replaced the plank. As a further
precaution, he moved a sheet-draped dress form
from another corner to a point Justin front of the
hiding place.
"Excellent spot," Poppel observed. "I
doubt any looter would trouble to rip up an attic
floor." He started out.
"Captain?"
"Yes, Mr. Kent?"
"I'm honestly sorry for a couple of the things I said
to you."
The captain smiled without humor. "Contrary to what
you may have been led to believe, Mr. Kent, not all
Northern men are ravening beasts. I only hope you
have no reason to need that weapon."
VI
For two hours after Poppel's engineers had
tramped on, Rosewood was relatively quiet.
Jeremiah hoped the worst was over.
Catherine had retired to her room for a nap,
complaining of being unable to sleep during the night.
Serena had also vanished again. But he was too tense
to
rest. He sat in the kitchen drinking coffee with
Maum Isabella, who told him tartly:
"Those bad-mannered Yanks ate every last
bite of gingerbread without so much as a thank you. No,
I take that back. One said it. One of the very first.
He also asked for a plate and laid a coin in it.
Nobody else paid, though. And a man at the end of the
line picked up the coin, slipped it in his pocket,
and walked out grinning big as you please."
"Well, we're still fortunate to have gotten off so
light-was
Down at the gate, the bell began clanging.
vu
By the time Jeremiah reached the piazza, Catherine was
at the foot of the staircase, rubbing sleep from her
eyes. She joined him outside as horsemen came
thundering up the lane. Blue-coated horsemen. Some
of the coats were no better than rags.
Dust billowed behind the riders, making it difficult
for Jeremiah to determine how many there were. Across the
fields toward the river, he could see infantrymen
moving. Hundreds of them, trampling the furrows.
A long line of wagons stretched from the woods down
the highway. The countryside was covered by men moving
on foot and in the white tops; covered-like a land
suffering a Biblical plague.
The cavalrymen reining up in front of Rosewood
looked more like riffraff than soldiers.
New riders arrived every few seconds, barely
visible in the dust.
Their commander was a man in his late thirties, with
sallow skin, thin arms and legs, and the beginnings of a
paunch. His eyes were the color of dried mud.
Head on, his face resembled a pear, bulging below
the ears. A half-moon of fat hung beneath his
stubbled chin. He greeted Jeremiah and Catherine
with a mocking
touch of his hat brim, then addressed them in a
nasal voice unpleasant to ears accustomed
to mellower Southern speech:
"Your servant. Major Ambrose Grace of the
Eighth Indiana, General Kilpatrick's
Third Cavalry Division." "The
Kill-cavalry," Jeremiah said.
A purse-lipped smile twitched the major's
mouth. "Sometimes we're complimented with that term,
yes."
Suddenly, laughing men shied their mounts aside.
Jeremiah groped for the support of one of the white
pillars when he saw a black on a mule jogging
out of the dust cloud. Catherine drew a breath, loud
and sharp.
Price tugged the mule to a stop beside the
commanding officer.
"This here's the place I was tellin' you about when I
met up with you last night, sir," Price said.
"Plenty of good things on this place-an' I know where
every one of "em is hid. I'll help you get 'em
all," he added, reaching down to grasp the Enfield
musket lying across his thighs.
A bit of red clay clung to the stock. The
cartridge box hung from the black's rope belt.
"Damn you," Jeremiah said. "You had it after
all."
Price's blue-black face wrenched into a chilling
smile.
"Did you really think I didn't, mister soldier?
Or that I wouldn't come back an" use it?"
The Bummers
JEREMIAH TOOK A STEP toward Price.
With his attention centered on the black man, he
only heard the slither of metal on metal as
Major Grace pulled his saber and extended his
arm.
"Hold on!"
Jeremiah found himself blocked by the blade. The
point touched his shirt. The major twisted the sword
slightly. The point pierced cloth,
pricking Jeremiah's chest.
With mock seriousness, the major added, "I can't have
you threatening one of our most valuable informants."
Furious, Jeremiah yearned to reach up and knock
the saber aside. But if he did, he'd
probably be gutted on the spot.
Some of the cavalrymen snickered as he stood
motionless. The laughter as much as called him a
coward. Humiliated, he promised himself he'd
get back at them-every one.
Catherine appeared more shaken than he'd ever seen
her. Her voice was barely audible as she spoke
to the slave with the Enfield:
"How could you do this? My husband always treated you
decently. So did I."
Price's brown eyes brimmed with animosity:
"I don' call being' kept as property decent
treatment."
"But we always tried to take good care of our-was
"Your little bitch stepdaughter took care of me,
all right," he broke in. "She took care of me
with the whip, her an' Leon. They tried to make me
tell about this here gun."
"They did no such thing!"
Price shrugged. "She never told you,
that's all. Miz Serena, she ain't just mean, she's
a sneak."
"You foul-mouthed bastard!" Jeremiah cried.
Only Ambrose Grace's blade pressing
into his breastbone kept him from lunging.
"That's enough," Grace said to him. To Price: "You
mean to say there's another white female on these
premises?"
"Yes, sir. Mighty fetching little piece, too.
She might strike your fancy," the black added with a
quick smile.
"Have to look into that," Grace murmured. Catherine
fisted her hands. Jeremiah's belly hurt.
Grace gigged him again:
"Would you kindly step back so I can dismount? I'd
like to conduct our business as politely as possible."
Jeremiah didn't budge. Grace frowned.
"Now see here, Reb. If you don't obey
I'll have to split you wide open. That's a poor
beginning for a friendly visit to this fine home."
"You aren't setting foot inside my-was Catherine
began.
"We certainly are," Grace interrupted.
"Else this young man's dead on the spot."
ii
Catherine drew a deep breath.
"You'd best do as he says, Jeremiah."
It was the surrender of Stock all over again-only this
time the roles were degradingly reversed.
For a moment he was unable to think clearly. He
wanted to snatch the saber and turn it on the snide,
smiling officer whose unclipped hair straggled from beneath
his hat to his frayed blue collar.
"Jeremiah!"
"No, Mrs. Rose. I'm not moving till we
get a promise from this-gentleman that we'll receive
honorable treatment. You especially."
The Indiana cavalryman looked thunderstruck:
"Honorable treatment? My God, you Rebs have
brass! Fair treatment's what you'll get, boy.
Fair treatment appropriate to your treason. You
and your kind want to keep the niggers penned up
"till the trump of judgment blows. You tried
to tear this nation apart to do it! You expect sweet
forgiveness? Hasn't it occurred to you that you'll have
to pay a penalty for your little adventure in
rebellion?"
"We paid the price in the field. We're still paying
it."
"Won't come close to settling the debt.
And I'll dictate what happens around here, not
you."
Grace exerted more pressure on the saber:
"Now either stand back or we'll dig you a nice
grave."
"Jeremiah, please!" Catherine cried. "We'll
report this man to his commanding officer."
Another burst of laughter from the lounging riders.
Grace shared it, then said:
"Go right ahead. Lieutenant Colonel Fielder
A. Jones. We haven't met up with him for three
days." The major's eyes pinned Jeremiah.
"What's it to be? I'll give you about five more
seconds."
White-lipped and feeling the worst sort of idiot
for thinking he could reason with such a man, Jeremiah
retreated.
"Much better!" Major Grace slid his saber
back in the scabbard and dismounted, asking Price,
"Who is this pup? The woman's son?"
"No, sir. Some Reb who showed up a few days
ago."
"Too yellow to stay and fight, were you? One
skirmish
and your hair turned white-typical of your
side, I'd say."
Jeremiah's cheeks darkened.
"Price?"
"Yessir, Major?"
"You come indoors with us. We need your guidance
to forage efficiently." He addressed a mounted
corporal: "Burks, locate General
Skimmerhorn-immediately."
Jeremiah didn't understand why some of the cavalrymen
nudged one another until Grace explained
to Catherine:
"General Skimmerhorn is our forager-in-chief.
I believe he came from one of General Howard's
infantry regiments. Quite a number of men have been
wandering away from their units. Skimmerhorn and some
others- ah-attached themselves to us. Up near
Gordon, the local folk referred to them as
bummers. I prefer to call 'em foragers.
Skimmerhorn's turned out to be so excellent at
supervising them, I gave him an unofficial
promotion. Private to general."
Grace talked as though he were making light conversation
at a social gathering. He reached for Catherine's
arm to escort her inside. She pulled away, the
mole beside her mouth stark black against her
white skin.
Grace chuckled in a tolerant way, continuing:
"Have you heard what we did between Sparta and
Gordon? The rebel plantations over there put up
so much resistance, General Kilpatrick had us
burn out every one of them. I trust the same thing
won't be required here. Of course we can't
display too much leniency. I'm not positive about
Uncle Billy's whereabouts, but if he and his
headquarters guard were to come jaunting along that road
tomorrow or the next day, I'd surely want them
to see signs of a job properly done."
The threat was stated in a good-natured way. Grace
concluded:
"he Bummers
"I sincerely hope you appreciate what you're
involved in, ma'am. A military masterpiece.
That's truly the only word for it-masterpiece. I
predict people will marvel over it for generations."
Evidently Grace expected Catherine to agree.
She was so dumbfounded, she couldn't even speak.
"Uncle Billy's a genius. No other general
would have the nerve to cross enemy country."
"I'm delighted to be informed that what you're doing is
a masterpiece," Catherine replied with a
withering look. "Otherwise I might have reached a
mistaken conclusion that it was something much less grand.
Vile, in fact. Disgusting and vile."
"Oh, I can appreciate how it looks from your
side. But try to keep my view in mind. That
way, we'll have fewer problems. We surely
don't want problems of the sort we encountered around
Gordon, do we?"
Speechless again in the face of the smiling threats,
Catherine turned and walked across the piazza. The
major followed. He was distinctly bowlegged.
Price went next, giving Jeremiah a
sideways glance of amusement as he walked by.
The black's bare feet were caked with dried mud.
The other troopers began to dismount. Down by the
highway, half a dozen men were using hatchets
to destroy a section of the fence, ignoring the gate and
creating a wider entrance for the canvas-topped
supply wagons.
The dust raised by the cavalry horses was settling.
Jeremiah was able to see the fields directly across
the road. Men were still moving through them in ragged
columns of fours. The lines stretched all the way
to the woodlands on his left. Somewhere a regimental
band blared the old South Carolina hymn
tune that had been transformed to "John Brown's
Body," and then, with new lyrics by some Northern
woman, into the hated "Battle Hymn of the
Republic."
On the fringes of the marching companies smaller groups
of men drifted, keeping to no particular formation. Some
of these men were breaking away and heading toward
Rosewood, whose fence was now being systematically
smashed a length at a time.
Jeremiah thought of the Kerr revolver in the attic.
Much as he wished he had it right now, he didn't
intend to go after it with Yanks in the house.
still must save it, he said to himself. Save it until
1 can make every one of those four balls count.
In the sitting room, Price was plumping himself down
in a wing chair as Jeremiah entered. The black
drew up an ottoman and put his right foot on it.
Tiny bits of mud fell on the embroidered
fabric.
Price stared at Catherine to see whether she'd
react. Though she was still furious she didn't.
"Now, ma'am," Major Grace said, "we'll be
requisitioning supplies and equipment from you."
Nodding in a weary way, Catherine said, "I've
heard that speech before. Within the last
twenty-four hours, in fact."
Grace's eyebrows raised. "Another unit
stopped here?"
"Much better looking and considerably more polite
than yours?"
The major's voice lowered: "The less of that sort
of talk, the safer you'll be. Evidently I
wasn't sufficiently clear when I made the point
outside."
"You were. Go on. Just have the decency to avoid words
like requisitioning. Say what you mean. Stealing."
"Call it whatever you damn please, we plan
to take most of your foodstuffs. We'll leave a
few kitchen implements, but we want all your
cooking utensils. The War Department's so
tight-fisted, we aren't issued any.
We'll require every oven you have. Every skillet. Every
coffee mill and pot."
"That's Sherman's idea of a military
masterpiece?" Jeremiah fumed. "Robbing homes
of coffee pots?"
Grace's eyes flickered angrily. "Don't
feel sorry for yourself, Reb. You have no idea what
war's really like. Georgia has no idea! You
think the people of this state are faring badly?
Wait till we reach the state that first fired op the
Federal flag. We have orders to reduce everything
to ashes. Everything. Believe me, South Carolina
will be made to feel the sin of secession much more than
Georgia-unless a lack of cooperation here forces
me to provide a sample of what's in store for
Charleston."
Alarmed, Jeremiah watched him stroll toward the
horsehair sofa, still speaking harshly:
"I suggest you limit your antagonistic remarks
and consider yourselves fortunate."
"Fortunate?" Catherine exclaimed. "Your gall
is absolutely -"
Before the confrontation could grow any hotter, there was a
diversion-Serena's sudden appearance in the hall,
yawning:
"I was trying to nap but I heard a fearful-oh, my
God!"
A single glance took in Price's foot on the
ottoman, and Grace's uniform as he pivoted
toward her. The major greeted her with an insincere
grin:
"Good day, ma'am. I haven't had the pleasure."
He swept off his hat. His long, dirty hair
began as a fringe midway down the sides
and back of his head. Above, he was bald.
"Ambrose Grace. Major, United States
Cavalry."
"My-my stepdaughter Serena," Catherine said with
effort.
Grace licked his lips. His eyes slid to the
bodice of Serena's dress. Jeremiah was barely
able to stand still.
"Charming child. Lovely. We don't raise them one
bit handsomer in Indiana. However-was A falsely
rueful expression. "comwe're here on business, not
to be social."
Slapping dust from his hat, he sprawled on the
horsehair sofa, which gave off a series of jingling
sounds.
Grace sat upright, blinking. "What's this? A
musical sofa?"
was 'Spect they hid stuff in there," Price
remarked. "Like I said, they been hidin" it all
over."
"Let's find out, shall we?"
Grace rose and drew his saber. With two
crisscrossing strokes he slashed the sofa's
back. Catherine pressed her hand to her mouth as he
reached into the opening and began flinging handfuls of
stuffing and silver on the carpet.
Boots thudded in the hall Serena darted aside as
a man stomped in-the most appallingly unclean
human being Jeremiah Kent had ever seen, or
smelled.
"General Skimmerhorn reportin' for duty,
Major."
"Just in time! Here's a trove for you."
Six more pieces of silver clattered on the rug.
Jeremiah couldn't take his eyes off the odd,
hulking creature Grace had characterised as his
forager-in-chief. If the bearded, broad-shouldered
Skimmerhorn had ever belonged to a military unit,
it was impossible to tell. He wore a bizarre
collection of stolen and improvised apparel:
A black stovepipe hat. A coat stitched together
from four contrasting sections of Oriental carpeting.
Gray trousers with one knee torn out, and each leg
decorated with the red stripe of the Confederate
artillery. Cracked work shoes with the tips gone and
grimy toes showing. In his right hand he held a
gunny sack.
Under Skimmerhorn's coat Jeremiah saw a
Navy Colt, and tied to his belt by thongs, two
souvenirs of his work: a small skillet
and a dead chicken with its neck wrung.
General Skimmerhorn gave Serena an
appraising look, then turned his attention to his
superior. Grace gestured:
"You may have all this silver as your reward for
supervising the foraging."
"Yes sir-thankee!" Skimmerhorn crouched and
began to grab knives and spoons and shove them into the
sack.
Catherine rushed forward at the sound of boisterous men
in the hallway. There were half a dozen, two in
uniform, four in civilian clothing. They pushed and
shoved to be first up the stairs.
"Where are they going?" Catherine demanded of the major.
"Why, to forage."
"They have no authority."
"Indeed, they do," the major slapped the hilt of his
saber, "this."
The men vanished. Serena looked nearly as
distraught as her stepmother. A few seconds later,
there was a crash from the second floor.
At the back of the house, Maum Isabella cried
out as a door splintered. The cry was followed by a
horrendous clatter of crockery breaking.
"Now," Grace said to Price, "what
else should we. be searching for?"
"They's a clearing back in the pines where they put a
lot of things. Mules. A wagon-was
"You followed us!" Jeremiah whispered. "It was you
I heard in the brush!"
"That's right, mister soldier," Price grinned. But
the smile didn't reach his eyes.
He hates me and he's going to kill me,
Jeremiah thought. He's liable to kill us all before
this is over.
Price described the contents of the cache in the
clearing. When he finished, Grace asked:
"Catch that, Skimmerhorn?"
"Most of it," the forager replied in a phlegmy
voice.
He shoved the last pieces of silver in his sack,
hawked, and blew a gob of spit on the carpet.
"We'll confiscate the cotton, kersey, and denim
cloth," Grace advised him. "If the clock's
fancy like the nigger says, I'll keep it for
myself." Price didn't seem annoyed at being
referred to as a nigger by the Union officer. "Could
use a good clock in the feed store back in
Vincennes. Turn the wagon and mules over to the
wagon master. Mix some kerosene with the
molasses. Oh, and don't forget kerosene in the
well when we're ready to go."
"Jesus!"
Grace glanced at Jeremiah. "What's wrong,
Reb. Did you expect us to leave you amply
provisioned? You still don't understand Uncle
Billy's style of fighting. He makes war for a
double purpose-I've heard him say so. First he
fights to gain physical results and second,
to inspire respect. Respect for-was
Price snapped his ringers. "Major?"
"What?"
"Jus' remembered. They put salt an' flour in
the ground out behind the slaves' graveyard. Two
barrels of each. I can show you where."
"Excellent. Dig them up, General. Kerosene
in those too."
"And mebbe a little piss to spice it?"
Skimmerhorn asked, scratching his gray-streaked
auburn beard with a hand on which an open sore
glistened.
Grace shrugged. "You're in charge."
"I'll see to it." Skimmerhorn tipped his
stovepipe and ambled out with the sack over one shoulder.
A man came clattering down the stairs and
burst into the room wearing a lacy, ivory-colored
gown over his uniform:
"Lordy, Major, lookit! First time I ever been
a bride!"
"Absolutely stunning," Grace chuckled.
Catherine lunged:
"T"s my comwedding dress!"
Grace shoved her back. "Union property
now." He held her wrist until she realized she
wasn't strong enough to break loose. When she ceased
struggling, he let her go with another warning:
"Your outbursts are going to make this genuinely
unpleasant, ma'am."
"It couldn't be any more unpleasant than it already
is. You're filth!"
Grace turned scarlet. Lifted his hand to hit
her, but managed to restrain himself. His voice shook:
"I personally am going to conduct the search for arms and
ammunition. Give me your keys."
Catherine stared at him, her lips moving without sound.
Grace raked a palm across his hairless skull.
"Goddamn it, I'm losing patience! Your
keys!"
"I-I have them put away in a private place.
I'll have to retire to get them."
"What private place?"
Now it was her turn to redden.
"I said, what private place?"
"On-was Jeremiah could barely hear her. "On my
person."
"Oh." Grace brightened again. "Well, this is
wartime. We're forced to overlook the niceties.
Get them out."
"Not in front of-not while everyone's-?"
There was sick disbelief in her eyes. Price
giggled.
Catherine regained a measure of control:
"If I do, will you promise me there'll be no
further damage to the house?"
"I can't offer any assurances. We'll
definitely torch your barns, your gin house, and
corn cribs. As to-this building-was Another
shrug. "No assurances."
"Catherine, you'd better give him the keys," said
Serena, a warning note in her voice.
Grace sat down on the gutted sofa, crossing one
leg over another, and studying the line of Serena's
hip before he lifted his gaze to her face.
"You're not only a pretty child, you're
intelligent." His glance slashed back
to Catherine. "Ma'am, I'm waiting."
"Will you-will you at least allow me to turn my
back8"*
Grace sighed. "If you must."
Jeremiah couldn't stand this much longer. Hooting
laughter, the crack of furniture, heavy running
and jumping racketed from overhead. Each whoop, each
crash, pierced him like an invisible bayonet. What
a fool he'd been to think all the Yanks would be as
decent as Poppel. He deserved the contempt of
Grace and the rest.
At least he'd deserved it until this moment. Now
all his illusions about humane treatment-decency-the
rules of war were vanishing, replaced by a consuming,
almost uncontrollable anger stronger than any he'd
ever felt before.
His mouth took on that slitted white look. Through
one of the piazza windows he could see tents being
erected down by the lane, and cook fires blazing.
In the drive, another band of blacks in confiscated
finery clapped while three young women danced in a
circle.
Catherine turned away from the men. She pulled up
her outer skirt, then the underskirts of crinoline,
corded calico and pleated horsehair.
Finally, after much rustling and maneuvering, she dropped
the skirts and turned back, tears on her cheeks.
She passed the key bag to Grace just as General
Skimmerhorn appeared in the doorway:
"Got most of the foraging started, sir." He'd
exchanged his gunny sack for a wicker-covered jug.
He raised the jug and took a long drink.
"Anything else we overlooked?"
Grace relayed the question to Price with a lifted brow
and a word:
"Nigger?"
"A big buck named Leon, he carried three
crates of chickens down to the bottom land near the
river."
"Did he now! Well, we certainly wouldn't
want any chicken dinners left on the table.
General, another assignment for you."
Skimmerhorn drank again; scratched his crotch.
His eyes slid to Catherine.
"AU by myself?"
Grace laughed. "Need a guide, do you? Take
her along. See that she's not mistreated, though. You
know Uncle Billy's instructions-we're not to harm
civilians."
He winked.
"Yessir," Skimmerhorn replied with feigned
seriousness. "I'll be right nice to her."
They all understood; Serena, Jeremiah, and
Catherine comwho screamed and bolted for the hallway.
Skimmerhorn darted in front of her. Caught her
around the waist:
"Here, woman, there's no call for that. I mean
to treat you just fine-Christ!" he yelped as
Catherine's nails raked his face.
The forager reeled back, three parallel
scratches oozing blood on his cheek.
Half crouched, Catherine resembled a trapped
animal. Skimmerhorn's eyes narrowed as she
tried to dart past him. The forager hopped to the right,
then the left, blocking her. Finally, with a sharp
outburst of breath- "Hah!"-he caught her arm and
bent it back so she was forced to her knees.
"We're gonna have a fine time huntin' them hens,
woman. You're right lively."
Jeremiah's control broke.
"You sons of bitches!" he yelled, charging
straight at Skimmerhorn.
Serena's Plan
PRICE KICKED THE OTTOMAN
aside and stuck out his leg. Jeremiah
failed to see it. He tripped, windmilling his arms
as Serena lunged at Skimmerhorn.
The forager backhanded her across the face, sending her
sprawling. Jeremiah had a distorted glimpse of the
fall just as he recovered his balance. At least she
stood up for Catherine when it counted.
He lowered his head and lunged at Major Grace,
who had jumped between him and Skimmerhorn. Before
Grace could draw his saber, Jeremiah struck him
with his shoulder. The impact knocked Grace onto
the gutted sofa. The momentum carried Jeremiah
forward on top of him. He worked a knee over to the
major's belly and bore down, pounding at the
man's face with wild, hard blows.
"Get him off!" Grace howled, jerking his head from
side to side to dodge the punches. Jeremiah
lifted his knee, drove it into the officer's groin.
Grace grunted. Grimaced. Absorbed a
glancing blow on his chin, then shoved. The two
spilled off the sofa.
Jeremiah fell awkwardly, whacking his head against
the sofa's corner. Dazed, he flopped on his
back. He tried to turn over.
Price loomed, planting his muddy feet on either
side of Jeremiah's legs. He raised
the Enfield with the muzzle
toward the ceiling, then smashed the butt
into Jeremiah's middle.
With a choking cry, Jeremiah tried to twist out of the
way and avoid a second blow. Too late. The
stock slammed his belly again.
Again.
Price's face remained expressionless. But not his
eyes. He put even more effort into the fourth blow.
Jeremiah rolled all the way over onto his
stomach, retching. Grace careened to his feet and
booted Jeremiah's temple, spitting
obscenities.
Jeremiah's forehead dug into the carpet. His back
heaved. He heard Catherine's cries as
Skimmerhorn manhandled her out of sight. A moment
later he had another impression of
movement-Price, gliding out after the forager.
He struggled to raise his belly. Clutched it with his
palms. That didn't ease the pain.
Growling one filthy word after another, Grace
stamped on the small of his back.
Jeremiah yelled, his body driven flat. His
vision grew more distorted. Fragmented thoughts went
screaming through his head :
God, it's no better here than comwiththe army.
No decency left in this war.
Nothing but meanness.
Meanness and hate-
In spite of his pain, his own hate was fierce and
powerful. But it wasn't powerful enough to keep him from
sinking into darkness.

"Jeremiah?"
Barely conscious, he fought to speak: "Mama?
Mama, is that-?" "Come to your senses! It's me."
He realized his mistake. Not Fan's voice.
Younger. He'd been watching misty images of
Lexington while consciousness returned.
He shifted his position slightly. He was still lying
on a floor. Something pricked the underside of his
left shoulder.
"Wake up, Jeremiah. You've been stretched out
there almost two whole hours!"
Wetness on his shirt. At the spot where he'd
felt the pricking. He reached for it with his right hand.
Bits of glass fell from his sleeve, tinkling on
the wood. When he attempted to sit up-an
agony-something sharp jabbed his buttocks. His eyes
snapped open.
"God! There's glass all over!"
Serena's face came into focus. Beyond her,
outside the latched window of the first-floor office, a
Union soldier stood guard.
With her help, he staggered to his feet, gaping at
the carnage. The shelves were bare. Books were
strewn everywhere. Some had been ripped in half.
The desk showed eight or ten fresh knife or
sword scars. All the drawers had been pulled out
and stamped to pieces. The chair had been reduced
to kindling.
On the floor near the spot where he'd been lying,
he noticed the small oil painting of Lieutenant
Colonel Rose, out of its frame, and torn in
half. In a tilde corner lay the remnants of
another frame, and nearby, the lock of Serena's
bright red baby hair and the card, crumpled.
He stared, disbelieving, while the girl uttered a
sad laughccst
"Aren't they kind? They started their search for arms and
ammunition in here."
"What-was He licked the inside of his mouth.
Massaged his bruised belly. His dizziness was
passing. "comwhat time is it?"
"Two or three o'clock. I'm not sure."
The office was stifling. He started for the hall
entrance.
"Won't do any good. We're locked in."
He leaned his back against the door, picked a long
splinter of glass from his trousers, and surveyed the
wrecked office again. He was disgusted-sickened-not so
much by the damage as by his own failure to prevent
it. He'd been unable to exert even the slightest
moderating influence on the Yanks.
And after Poppel, he'd been encouraged. He'd
really believed the Union soldiers might not be as
bad as they'd been painted.
All at once the infuriating sense of failure was
replaced by a sharp fear:
What if they'd found the Kerr .44 in the attic?
What if they'd decided to parade the dress form, as
Catherine's wedding gown had been paraded? What if
someone had accidentally discovered the loose plank?
He prayed they hadn't. Prayed he could get his
hands on the Kerr piece before Grace's cavalry
moved on. How pathetic to have thought even briefly that
there was any other way to deal with the enemy.
Another memory jolted him:
"What's happened to your stepmother?"
"I don't know." Her voice was
curiously flat. "That- what was the word? Bummer?
He dragged her out. I tried to stop him. Grace
caught me and put me in here."
"Then by now she's been-was
He couldn't say the rest.
"I expect she'll live through it."
Jeremiah's mouth dropped open. He couldn't
believe the matter-of-fact way in which she'd
spoken. Or the emotionless expression on her
haggard face. Her dress was disarrayed; her hair
too. But she seemed icily composed.
"My God, Serena, is that all you can say-she'll
live through it?"
"Well, she will! May hurt her Christian
conscience some, but it could be a lot worse. They could
shoot her-they aren't going to do that."
He supposed Serena's fatalistic view was
logical. But he also suspected there was another
reason she wasn't particularly anxious about her
stepmother's plight. Maybe she was even a little
pleased.
Some of his shock must have showed. She cried suddenly:
"Jeremiah, they've got her! We can't do anything
about what's already happened. Let's worry about what
might happen. We've got to see the
Yanks don't burn this house, or poison the
well. They're going to fire the cribs and gin
house, Grace left no doubt about that. But this
building-was
Bitter, he broke in, "What the devil can we
do about it?"
"I can talk to Major Grace." "Talk?" He
was thunderstruck. "You heard me. Talk. I called
the guard in the hall just before you woke up. Told him
to fetch that no-good Yankee son of a bitch right
away."
She tossed her head to rid her brow of a stray
lock of scarlet hair. Somehow there was defiance as
well as strength in the movement. Her smile grew
sweetly vicious:
" 'Course, I didn't use those words. I was
polite- well, polite as I could be, considering
what they've done." She seized his arm as he
swayed. "You all right?"
"Yes." But he was having difficulty standing. "You
look awful."
"Another five or ten minutes, I'll be fine."
"That's all the time I expect to spend with
Grace." "Serena, what the devil are you fooling
with him for?"
"Why, I'm going to beg him to leave the house
alone."
He was startled, yet impressed by the calculating
expression in her blue eyes. She went on:
"He put on a fierce show in the sitting room.
Men have to do that-bluster some-in front of other men they
boss around. But if I can get him alone-was
The thrust of her idea erased his appreciation of her
calm:
"You've lost your damn mind! Before you came
downstairs, still tried to reason with him and couldn't."
"Reason with him? I'll bet you sassed him and
practically bit his head off. Right in front of his
men, too."
A guilty look said she was right.
"I hate him as much as you do, Jeremiah. But I
think he fancies me a little. He sure enough stared
at me as if he did. Your tactics didn't
work. Let me try mine."
Sarcasm in his voice: "You believe nice friendly
words and smiles will have an effect on a man like that?"
"Might," she nodded. Then, piqued: "You have any
better suggestions?"
"I suggest you forget the whole idea right now."
She stamped her foot. "What's the
matter with you? Don't you understand Rosewood may be
all we'll have left after these men move on? We
won't even have Rosewood-or water fit
to drink-if one of us doesn't do something!"
Her anger blunted his. He let another,
deeper concern surface:
"But, Serena, that man-he's a bad sort. The
worst."
"I know what you're saying."
"Do you? He could take advantage-was
"You think I don't appreciate that?"
She rushed to him. One hand touched his sweaty cheek.
"Doesn't it scare you?"
was 'Course it does. But I want to save this
house. And I don't want them to hurt you again.
Considering the way you behaved, they might take a
notion to do it."
Part of him responded to her sympathetic tone, but
another part resented having someone else fight his
battles. He stalked away three steps,
crunching glass under his boot.
"I still say you're a damn fool."
"Now don't get all pettish just because you failed and
I might not."
Stung by the truth, he swung around and
glared.
"Jeremiah, it's not a case of man or woman,
one better than the other. You tried-there's no shame
in trying and being tromped on, two against one. This is
our trouble,-ours-together. While you get your strength
back, I'll do what has to be done. At least
make an effort-was
"What the hell happens if he starts to-to
mistreat you?"
"Like the man who took Catherine?"
He nodded.
A small, sly smile curved her mouth, "I
think I can handle him. I think I can make him do
what I want and still keep myself out of a scrape."
There it was again; the maddening implication of experience.
"You're pretty sure of yourself."
The smile disappeared. She was upset by his
reaction:
"I'm not! I'm scared to death. But I'm still going
to try."
She glided close, letting him feel the contours of
her body against his leg and aching chest. Her hand
stroked his face again:
"I don't want to spend two seconds with that
man. But I will if there's a chance to keep
this house standing. It's all we have."
Serena's Plan
Softly he said: "You and Catherine-"
Arms around his neck. A light kiss on his mouth:
"You and I. Don't you see? I want something
left for
us."
"It's her house too."
Quick anger in her eyes was just as quickly hidden.
"Oh, yes, I know it is! But I can't help
thinking of you."
Another kiss; longer. Then she leaned her cheek
against his shoulder.
"I'm fond of you, Jeremiah. Fonder than you
realize. We're going to be together when this is over.
This house is going to belong to us." She pulled
back, her eyes disarmingly wide. "Even if it
takes some put-on sweet talk, with my knees
banging together while I try to convince the major I
believe he's a wonderful, kind man who surely
wouldn't burn Rosewood to the ground."
"You-you won't do anything more than talk?"
"He lays one hand on me, I'll scream till
they hear clear over in Louisville!"
Another change of mood; the sly look
returned:
"Truly, I think I can handle that Indiana
roughneck."
"And find out what's happened to your stepmother?"
"Yes, that too." She sounded less than
enthusiastic.
For a moment he almost believed she possessed the
feminine wiles to pull it off. But the plan still
struck him as unacceptably dangerous.
The protest he started to make was silenced by the feel
of her body tight against his. Sore and anxious as
he was, she could still reach him. Convince him with a
brush of her lips. With words that carried promises-
We.
U.
"Actually," she said at last, "there's no
guarantee the major will even answer my message.
So you're worrying for nothing until-was
A hand rapped on the other side of the door.
"Until right now," he said with a grim smile.
Serena stepped to the door. Smoothed her hair.
"Yes?"
"Major Grace, ma'am." He sounded quite friendly.
"I was informed you wished to speak to me?"
"I do. Will you please unlock the door?"
"If that Reb's awake, tell him to stand well
back."
"Do it, Jeremiah."
When he hesitated, still tormented by fear for her
safety, she clenched her teeth:
"Do it!"
He retreated to a corner, stumbling over ruined
books.
"All right, Major."
The key rattled. From his vantage point,
Jeremiah couldn't see the officer. Serena stepped
out of sight behind the open door.
"Thank you for coming, major. I'm anxious to speak
to you because of the terrible things happening on this place. I
want to plead with you to control your men. Not take such
harsh measures. But I'd prefer to discuss it somewhere
else, if we might. Privately?"
Jeremiah leaned his head against the wall and shut his
eyes. How smooth and assured she sounded; in
perfect control. He found himself admiring her
nerve, and the ruthless way she went about manipulating
Grace. There'd been an almost seductive lilt
in her voice.
"Why, yes, Miss Serena. I believe I can
spare a few minutes to listen to what you have
to say. I must warn you, though. I'm not a man
easily persuaded."
"We'll see. Shall we go to the sitting room?"
"By all means."

The major took time to lock the door. His
footsteps, and Serena's lighter ones, faded
slowly. Then someone's
weight made the door creak. The hall sentry,
back on duty.
The guard outside the window remained motionless.
Over the man's shoulder Jeremiah saw an
ecstatic celebration in progress down among the
slave cabins.
Young women danced in Catherine's dresses. One
buck strutted with a torn Confederate battle flag
draped over his head and shoulders like a shawl. Three
of the foragers pursued a pair of girls across a
ramshackle porch. The bummer in the lead had his hand
up one girl's skirt, from behind, as they disappeared
inside.
Crouching, Jeremiah rubbed at his chest where it hurt
the worst. He gazed at Henry Rose's torn
portrait.
The painted sections of the genteel, bearded
face lay at right angles to one another. Broken
apart-just the way everything at Rosewood was being
broken by the actions of unprincipled men. Again he
felt contempt for the pathetic soldier who'd tramped
midnight roads, obeying an order; fulfilling a
promise; believing he could fight honorably,
meaningfully again on the plantation.
He did admire Serena's determination. But he was
positive her scheme would come to nothing. Ambrose
Grace would no more listen to her than he'd jump
to obey an order from Robert Lee. North and
South, dishonorable men had seized any
excuse-nigra freedom; defense of their
homeland; punishment of the enemy- as a justification for
indulging their worst impulses. The Franz
Poppels of the world were rarities. Even Poppel
himself had admitted as much by secretly giving him the
Kerr.
He brushed glass aside. Knelt. Touched one
of the ripped halves of Rose's image. His
fingertip rested on the rough-textured paint that
created a melancholy eye.
I've failed you so far. But it isn't over yet.
The yearning to race up to the attic became almost
unbearable.
He drew deep breaths. His chance would come.
Serena was bound to fail. The question was-how badly?
If she got through her interview without a physical
assault by Grace, Jeremiah decided he'd
bide his time. No more outbursts. No more foolish
assaults when more than one man was present to beat
him to the ground.
But if he heard the slightest alarm-a cry from her-
then somehow he'd batter the damn door to pieces.
He'd do as much as he could--go as far as he could
toward the attic-before the sentry or one of the other
Yanks shot him down.
Either way, the answer was his, not Serena's. The
answer was the hidden gun.
He licked his lips, increasingly sure. He'd
only stopped arguing with her because she was so adamant,
and because she'd linked her plan with other plans for
then-future together.
He wanted the future at which she'd hinted. He
realized that despite everything-including Catherine's
spiteful warnings-he was falling in love with Serena.
Yes, there was a certain cruel edge to her
personality. But there was a similar edge
to his-sharpening moment by moment. To have denied her a chance
to test herself-even though he felt she was
foolhardy-well, it might have wrecked everything between
them. She didn't want any protection-or any
suggestion that she was a simpering female incapable of
independent action. Maybe that's what had rankled
poor Catherine so; she'd raised a child who didn't
conform to the acceptable standards of feminine behavior.
Jeremiah was glad she didn't conform. It made
her a woman worth having.
He'd let her flirt, and wheedle, and remain
ready to act if Grace molested her. Even if
Grace didn't, he was sure to reject her
appeals. Then Jeremiah could step in. He knew
how, finally. The only thing that would make an
impression on the Union officer was the Kerr
revolver.
Impression-
He laughed over the inadvertent aptness of the thought.
He'd make an impression, all right.
Three inches deep in the center of Grace's
forehead.
Night of Ruin
FIFTEEN MINUTES PASSED.
Twenty.
Jeremiah lingered close to the door, listening for an
outcry from the front of the house. Once in
a while he caught the soft sounds of the hall sentry
shifting position. But that was all.
Growing more and more worried, he paced the office. He
didn't hear anyone approach outside. He
started violently at the quick, hard rapping.
He rushed to the door. Pressed his ear against it.
"Serena? Are you all right?"
She sounded shaky when she answered:
"Yes. He-lie agreed."
"What?"
"I talked my fool head off. Flattered him-
practically crawled for him. But he agreed to leave
the house standing."
He couldn't believe it. She was more persuasive
than he'd ever imagined.
"Did he try to-?"
"No. Seems there are a few rules General
Sherman's pretty fierce about. His officers not
harming women is one of them. Any man who's
caught-well, I just got the feeling Grace
wouldn't chance it."
"Serena, is anyone listening to this?"
"The guard's a ways down the hall. The major
told him to stay there while I talked to you."
"But you're sure the house is safe?"
"I don't know how safe. There are men rampaging
all over the place. But it won't be burned.
Jeremiah, the major ordered me locked in my
room for the night."
"Why not back in here?"
"Guess he's worried we might cook up some
kind of trouble for him." A low laugh. "He
doesn't know we've already gotten what we wanted.
Now you stay calm in there. I'll be fine."
"I don't trust-was
"I tell you he's scared white about any of his
troopers injuring women!"
"Doesn't make sense! He let
Skimmerhorn-was
"Skimmerhorn's not one of his men. He can always
claim he had no control over him,"
"He's a liar."
was "Course he is. But he's protecting himself."
"What did you learn about Catherine?"
"Nothing yet. Skimmerhorn isn't back.
Maum Isabella promised to keep watch."
"Damn it, Serena, we've got to find out about
her!"
"I can't!" She sounded close to tears. "I've
done all I could. Now you-you rest.
Don't fret about me. Just remember-was She was
moving-away. "comwe're going to be together soon. I
love you, Jeremiah."
The unbelievable words left him open-mouthed. He
banged a fist against the door in sheer surprise and
happiness, overwhelmed by her unexpected
success-and the whispered admission of her feelings.
A brief period of euphoria tempered his
hateful feelings about Ambrose Grace, and
distracted him from what was taking place outside. But
before the night was over, he had spent a great deal of
time at the window-
There, his hatred of Grace renewed itself, and grew
stronger and stronger as the hours passed with no news of
Catherine.
All that Monday night he watched the systematic
ruin of Rosewood.
The part of the property visible to him swarmed with the
enemy, coming and going on foot and on horseback.
Once darkness fell, cook fires were started wherever
the Union soldiers and foragers pleased. With the
fires lit, the activity outside took on the
aspects of a nightmare.
Figures of horses and men became specters of
flame and shadow. It seemed to him there were more
stragglers in castoff clothing than blue-clad
cavalrymen. Foot by square foot, the bummers
devastated the expanses of lawn between the main house
and the head of the lane leading to the slave cabins. They
used sabers and ramrods to jab the earth and tear out
slabs of turf as they hunted for buried
possessions.
By torchlight, eight or ten bummers worked the
slaves" burial ground in the same way,
knocking over hand-hewn wooden markers and crosses
of sticks and unearthing bodies-or parts of them. At
one point Maum Isabella rushed at three of the
men ripping up the cemetery. A spade glinted,
swung by a pair of grimy white hands. The old
black woman fell and crawled off into the dark before
she could be hit again.
When digging up the grass and the burial ground
yielded no treasures, forty or fifty of the enemy
divided into two groups and staged a sort of sham
battle with buckets of pine knots fetched from the
woods. The knots were lighted and hurled at those on
the other side. For a while the night sky was
crisscrossed with arching traceries of fire and
sparks.
Other men invaded the slave cabins,
carrying out blankets, pans, or any other useful
item. The few blacks who tried to stop them were
knocked down, and if they resisted further, beaten.j
A foul smoke from campfire garbage began
to blur the scene, heightening Jeremiah's feeling that
he was gazing through a window at hell.
His thoughts kept returning to Catherine. Then
to Serena.
To what she'd said.
"I love you."
Those words foretold almost unimaginable happiness if
he and Serena survived the night and the next few
days.
Shortly after midnight, half a dozen
cavalrymen converged on the three hog pens.
Two dismounted soldiers tore the first gate off its
hinges. The horsemen milled just outside, revolver
and rifle barrels catching the glare of the firelight.
One pistol exploded. The hogs stampeded into the
open, terrified by the snorting horses and whooping
men. The office window shook from volleys of
gunfire.
The sight of the dumb beasts falling, blood pouring from
their snouts, bellies, brainpans made him turn
away, nauseated. He listened to the shooting
and the squealing for about twenty minutes, crouching in a
corner with his hands clenched and his mouth a slit.
Is this what Grace calls sparing Rosewood?

He must have dozed. Daylight hazed by garbage
smoke brightened the window as he roused to hear another
urgent tapping from the hall.
The office smelled sour. In the night he'd been
forced to urinate. Now his stomach hurt. He. was
starved.
The knocking came again. Louder. He stumbled to the
door.
"Who is it?"
"Serena." Her voice sounded unnaturally faint and
husky.
"What's wrong?"
"When I got up an hour ago, Grace let me
out. Catherine still wasn't back. I got permission
to go down to the bottoms. Had to sneak past three
Yank camps to get there. I spent half an hour
searching. I-I found her."
The last two words were so hoarse and full of
anguish, he had a premonition about the rest. "How
is she?"
Serena's voice broke:
"Half her clothes were torn off. She'd been
dragged two or three hundred yards. She was all
filthy with red clay. She-she's dead,
Jeremiah."
He shut his eyes. "Jesus Christ in Heaven."
Somehow she managed to tell him the rest:
"About half the slaves have run away. But
Leon's still here. I sent him to-carry her back.
She was lying face down in the water. Drowned."
Suddenly the girl began sobbing: "She wasn't my
mama-I never pretended to like her. But I didn't
want anything like-like this-was
The words grew incoherent. His belly felt heavy
as a stone. He pressed both palms against the
wood.
"Serena? Serena, listen to me!"
The sobbing lessened a little.
"Did you tell the major?"
"Right-right away." Bitterness: "He's scared out of
his wits. He kept saying he's only
responsible for men directly under his command."
"It was that son of a bitch Skimmerhorn, wasn't
it?"
"Can't be anyone else, can it? Crace questioned him.
But he denied he killed her. Denied it
over and over. The major's letting it go at that."
He closed his eyes a second time, but opened them
almost immediately. There was no longer any doubt about what
he had to do.
"Serena, get me out of here. Get Major
Grace to unlock the door. Tell him I won't
cause any trouble."
"I don't know whether he'll believe-was
"Make him believe it! You persuaded him last
night-do it again!"
No response except faint crying.
"Serena?"
"I-I hear you."
"Get me out. Any way you can"
"y-yes. All right. I'll try."
Ten minutes later, the bald cavalry officer
came personally to turn the door key.
IV
"Kent-was Grace looked pale, far less
assured than he'd been yesterday. "I assume
Miss Serena told you."
"About Mrs. Rose? Yes."
"I deeply regret-was
"Shit."
"I do!"
"Because you may be in trouble with Uncle Billy
Sherman? What a pity."
"Kent, listen to me! Skimmerhorn's given me his
word he wasn't the one. He-took her, yes-was
"Against her will."
"But he didn't do anything more! She was alive when
he left her. Someone else must have found her."
The man seemed genuinely terrified: "Look,
Kent. Understand. In wartime, things happen that can't be
helped."
"You could have helped. You gave him permission."
"I'll deny it. I'll deny it to heaven!"
Desperate, he tried bluster: "General Sherman
said it right, just before Atlanta. War's like the
thunderbolt, he said. It follows its own laws. It
doesn't turn aside even if the virtuous and
charitable stand in its path."
Sanctimonious bastard! How anxious, now,
to ease his own conscience and avoid disciplinary action.
"I doubt Sherman was referring to rape, Major.
I doubt he was referring to murder either."
Yet who besides Sherman had turned these monsters
loose?
All at once Grace's muddy eyes took on
the look of a helpless boy. "I realize
Mrs. Rose didn't stand in the way by choice. But
the woman's dead. What's the use of arguing about
blame?"
"None. So long as you aren't blamed."
"Kent, for Christ's sake!"
"All right," Jeremiah sighed, masking his
feelings. "It's done. No more argument. I can't
stand this damn room one minute longer. Just let me
out of here and-was
He was interrupted by hysterical wailing from another
part of the house. Maum Isabella.
Grace sniffed the rank odor of urine. "Under the
circumstances -considering what's happened-the
excesses comif you give me your pledge to cause
no trouble for the next few hours I'll release you.
We'll be gone by late afternoon."
Jeremiah's mouth soured. "How can I possibly
cause trouble? What can I do against all the men
you've got?"
He held up both hands. "I'm not exactly
heavily armed. Just let me out. I need to eat
something and use the privy."
He thought the plea might work. Grace was
sufficiently upset-no longer the controlled,
arrogant officer of yesterday. Blinking
rapidly, the major studied him.
"If you pledge not to-was
"Yes," Jeremiah said, careful to sound beaten.
"I give you my word. No trouble."
The major hesitated a moment longer. "Just
remember comthe guilt isn't mine. If you try
to tell anyone it is, you'll never prove it."
"That I know," Jeremiah said, no longer lying.
Grace pivoted and moved unsteadily down the
corridor, leaning a hand against the wall to support
himself.
Jeremiah stood rigid in the open doorway. You
don't care that Mrs. Rose is dead. You only
comwant to save your stinking Yankee skin.
He clenched his fists but didn't move until
Grace was out of sight.
Rosewood was a shambles. He discovered broken
furniture everywhere. Feather pillows from the
bedrooms had been ripped open, and their contents
strewn like snow throughout the downstairs. Near the
front entrance, someone had defecated. The stench was
vile.
By the time he approached the door to the kitchen, he
noticed his boot soles were sticky. Molasses
had been spread all over the dining room
carpet. Then corn meal had been spilled and ground
in. The feathers were the finishing touch.
In the kitchen, Maum Isabella and the four
house-girls wailed like demented creatures. They
stood or knelt around the body of Catherine Rose
laid out on the long butchering block. The body had
been covered with a tattered blanket. Except for the
face.
Jeremiah forced himself to approach the body. Stare
at the livid bruises on Catherine's cheeks and
forehead; the dried red clay in her hair. He
didn't want to forget that face. Not until he'd
done what must be done.
On her knees at the end of the improvised bier,
Maum Isabella wrung her hands and rocked
back and forth, tears running in the seams in her dark
face. As he started to turn away, one of the other
women screamed at him:
"Cry for her, Marse Kent. Cry for the poor
woman!"
He shook his head. "It's too late."
His eyes looked feverish as he crossed the dining
room with its sweet reek of syrup. Feathers
stirring brought on a violent sneeze. His boots
crunched the meal.
He checked the hallway.
Clear.
He stole up the staircase toward the attic. He
found the wire dress form toppled over and bent beyond
repair.
But the loose plank hadn't been disturbed.
VI
General Skimmerhorn was dippering a drink from the
well on the rear piazza.
Two laughing, frock-coated bummers went
trotting past on stolen horses. The neck of one
of the animals was decorated with a shawl Jeremiah
recognized as Serena's. Out of sight beyond the
house, wagons rumbled. A blare of brass and
riffle of snare drums kept cadence for the men
beginning to march.
General Skimmerhorn noticed him half hidden
by a lattice. The forager dropped the dipper back
into the well. Droplets of water spattered his
carpet coat when the dipper rope snapped taut.
Using his left hand-it was concealed behind the lattice
-Jeremiah touched the front of his dirty linen
shirt, making sure it bloused out sufficiently around
his waist. Then he started toward the well.
Skimmerhorn brushed back the lapels of
his coat so he could grab for his Navy Colt
quickly.
"What you want, boy?"
"A word with you, General." He tried to sound
appropriately cowed.
Skimmerhorn broke wind noisily, edging around
to the well's far side. He was obviously wary of the
lank-haired young man standing stoop-shouldered and
motionless. Behind the forager lay one of the shot hogs,
its entrails spilling from its belly and aswarm with
crawling white things. The morning air was dark
gray, heavy with humidity, and fouled by the fumes of
smoldering garbage.
"If you come to talk about the woman, I'll tell you
what I told the major. I didn't have nothin'
to do with killin' her." Skimmerhorn scratched his
beard. "I took her to the bottoms, right enough.
Had my pleasure with her. Even got so het up,
I clean forgot we was after three crates of
chickens. Never did find "em. She passed out
'fore I could ask her where they was. But I left
her alive! And a long way from that water where I hear
the girl found her."
"Face down." Jeremiah's attempted laugh
came out as a snort. "She just crawled
right on down to the water and drowned herself, did she?"
"What do you want me to say? Some women do queer
things if they get mauled a little."
"Get raped, you mean."
"I didn't kill her! I ain't gonna stand and
jaw about it!" He started away.
"Wait!" Jeremiah exclaimed, then added an
appeasing word: "Please."
Skimmerhorn swung around, suspicious.
"I didn't mean to quarrel. Nothing's going to bring
Mrs. Rose back."
"An* still didn't drown her-just you keep that in
mind!"
Oddly, Jeremiah felt the forager was telling the
truth. There was a desperate quality in
Skimmerhorn's speech-an anxiety to absolve
himself-that seemed genuine.
"Shit, boy, you seen the fields. There's
hundreds of men movin" between here and the river. Any
one of "em could of done it."
"I know. If you say you didn't, I believe
you."
"Well, that's a heap better." Skimmerhorn
acted relieved. He settled his stovepipe hat
on his greasy hair, a touch of his
cockiness creeping back. "You're being" sensible.
Now is that all you wanted?"
"No, sir." Carefully he began the plea he'd
rehearsed in silence. "After you go, we'll need some
corn." He pointed to one of the cribs. "I'd like
to ask you to bring some out. A sack or two-was
Skimmerhorn started to snicker.
"I can make it worth your while."
Skimmerhorn's greed overcame his caution:
"How? You got nothin' we ain't took already."
"You're wrong. There's something valuable back in the
pines. One thing Price didn't see me bury."
A quick glance down the street between the slave cabins.
Most of the blacks remaining on the plantation had
disappeared indoors. Just one small boy was visible,
seated on a slanting stoop in a forlorn posture and
staring into space as if he'd been abandoned.
"Where is Price?"
"I dunno," Skimmerhorn answered. "He's
been all over the place since yesterday. I
"spect he's struttin" around somewhere with that
musket of yours. Listen, get on with it. What'd
you bury?"
"A small sack. Mrs. Rose's jewelry."
"Jewelry! That a fact!"
"Look, General-was He tried to sound whiny;
pleading. "comwe've got to have at least a little corn
to tide us over. You could take some out of one of the
cribs before they set fire to them. I don't
suppose they'll let me near the cribs." He
eyed the soldiers guarding the doors of the buildings.
Skimmerhorn's nod said his guess was correct.
"But you can get in. If you hide two bags
I'll show you the buried jewelry. Mrs. Rose
doesn't need it any longer."
Skimmerhorn pondered the proposition. "How far
we got to go to find it?"
"Only about half a mile into the pines."
The forager closed his hand on the butt of the Navy
Colt. "Wouldn't be smart for you to play tricks
on me, Reb."
"No tricks. We have to eat."
Another speculative glance at Jeremiah, and the
forager made his decision:
"Find us a shovel and let's go. I'll take a
peek in the sack. If it's good jewelry, mebbe
I will fetch that corn. But I don't promise
nothin' till I see the goods."
"That's fair," Jeremiah nodded. "All right if
I come around the well?"
Skimmerhorn drew his Colt.
"Slow. Good an' slow."
Jeremiah nearly smiled. So far it had worked
perfectly. He kept his voice appropriately
apologetic:
"It'll take me a minute to turn up a shovel.
Ought to be one down by the cabins. Then we'll be on
our way."
General Skimmerhorn chuckled. "Coin' on a
little treasure hunt. Right pleasing idea. Yes
sir, right pleasing. You finally come to your senses."
still did, General. Finally.
"I know when we're whipped," he lied.
Day of Death
JEREMIAH AND SKIMMERHORN
walked toward the lane, the bummer two paces behind.
Pretending to scratch his chest, Jeremiah loosened
his shirt a little more.
A soldier standing guard by one of the cribs hailed the
forager, wanting to know where he was bound. Skimmerhorn
waved the Navy Colt:
"Little private errand. Be right back."
They went from cabin to cabin in search of a shovel.
Each of the small houses had been stripped. Finally
Jeremiah spotted the tool they needed
lying near the edge of the burying ground. By now he was
breathing so rapidly he was sure Skimmerhorn would
notice the change.
But he didn't. The general was in good spirits,
strutting and whistling "The Battle Cry of
Freedom."
They followed the rutted track into the pines. The
gray daylight barely penetrated here. The earth
smelled dank. For a while the silence was broken
only by the forager's whistling. Then he struck up a
conversation:
"You know, boy, now that you've calmed down some, I
can say I truly feel it's a pity about that
woman. I wanted to enjoy her, an' I did. But
I don't wish no female dead on account of me.
Sure is a shame. No-body'll ever catch the
man who did it, I "spose."
Jeremiah's shrug pretended weary agreement. But
someone will be punished for it.
"Still," Skimmerhorn went on, "you an" that little
red-headed gal ought to consider yourselves lucky. You'll
be alive when we move on. The major says he
don't plan to burn the main house."
"Miss Serena persuaded him to be lenient,"
Jeremiah nodded.
Skimmerhorn laughed. Jeremiah puzzled at the
salacious sound of it.
"I'd love to have a morsel o' her persuasion."
He nudged Jeremiah's elbow with the Colt "She
given you any?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Persuasion!" A wink. "The sort a lively
female dishes out when she's flat on her back."
"Flat on her-what the hell are you talking about?"
"You mean you don't know? Well, don't get
testy about it. I figgered it'd be all over the house
by now. She an' the major, they was locked up in her
room most of the night."
Jeremiah nearly stumbled.
"I was hangin' around shortly before the men started
killin' the hogs at midnight. The major come
down in his trousers and undershirt to check on things.
He got to braggin' some. Said that little girl went at
it like an animal. A wild animal. They'd done
it three times already comt is, if he wasn't
lyin'-and he claimed she was ready for more. Starved for
lovin'!"
Jeremiah's cheeks ran with sweat. His voice was
barely audible:
"You're the one who's lying."
Skimmerhorn chuckled again, less friendly. "I ought
to clout you for sass, boy. I'm givin' you
gospel." He raised the Colt, barrel straight
up, and planted his other palm over his heart.
"Swear it! The major said he meant to try somethin'
with her from the very first. But she got him alone in the
sitting room and damned if she didn't beat him
to it. "Magine a girl that sweet-looking raising
such a subject? Kind of shockin" even to
an old rascal like me. It's the old saw about a
book an' its cover, I reckon."
Jeremiah wanted to turn on the forager right then.
Finish him. Stop the filth coming out of his mouth. "But
he didn't; he was suddenly haunted by the memory
of Catherine's warning.
She is not moral. ,
He recalled his astonishment when Serena claimed
to have persuaded Grace with words alone. He tried
to deny that Skimmerhorn's story could be true. The
harder he tried, the less he succeeded.
"Yessir, she practically begged him for it, the
major said. She wouldn't of had to beg me! I'd have
been up her skirts first time she flounced "em at
me!"
It was true. It had to be true. Why would
the forager invent such a tale?
And she'd said "I love you."
His faith in her suddenly seemed even more pathetic and
contemptible than his misguided belief that Yanks
could act decently. His head swam. Everything was
crumbling away. Crumbling into corruption; lies;
dishonor -
And he hated Skimmerhorn all the more for having
spoken.
The bummer halted, considerably less
good-humored:
"Boy, you told me half a mile. We've gone
that an"
more."
"I must have judged it wrong. We're close."
Panicked, he searched the terrain ahead. Saw a
break in the underbrush.
"There. Turn off to the right."
"I got fish to fry back at the house. More
val'ables to pack up before we move on. Let's
step lively."
"Yes, sir." Jeremiah quickened the pace.
He led Skimmerhorn to the spot where he'd
glimpsed an overgrown path. He had no idea
where the path
went. And he was worried about the sound. They weren't
sufficiently far from the plantation. But
Skimmerhorn was impatient.
His head was hurting. Rage was mounting in him. Rage
at the war. At Serena. And particularly at this
man who'd destroyed an illusion with a few crude
sentences.
He had meant to go a good distance along the overgrown
path. But the pressure of his wrath grew too
great. He stopped after a dozen steps. Here the path
widened slightly. He pointed into the tangle of
weeds and brush.
"Back in there."
Skimmerhorn bent forward, peering past him. While
the man's attention was diverted, Jeremiah raised
his hand from his belt buckle and undid two buttons
on his shirt, covering the movement by swinging the shovel
slowly up to his shoulder with his other hand.
"Lord, it's hot as an oven in here!"
Skimmerhorn complained. He crouched. Pushed
weeds aside with the muzzle of the Colt. "Don't
look like a clump of sod's been turned in there for
ninety-nine years." He started to rise and twist his
head toward Jeremiah. "If you're shittin' with
me, boy-was
Jeremiah's sweaty palm was already under his
shirt.8With his other hand he let the shovel fall.
He drew the hidden Kerr before Skimmerhorn
realized what was happening.
Skimmerhorn was fast, though. He pivoted on the
toes of his boots, jerked the Navy Colt up with
one hand, and punched Jeremiah's groin with the other.
Jeremiah reeled back, stumbling on the shovel.
He lost his balance. Skimmerhorn fired from a
crouch.
The, underbrush rustled behind him, a kind of
reptilian hiss, as the bullet spent itself.
Only the fall had saved him. Before Skimmerhorn
could aim and shoot again, Jeremiah fired.
The bullet from the Kerr blew away part of
Skimmerhorn's right temple. He sat down hard
on his rump. A spasm of his finger discharged the
Colt a second time. The bullet buzzed away
harmlessly.
Skimmerhorn swayed. His head lolled slowly to the
right while a dark stain appeared between his legs.
Blood poured down the side of his face, soaking his
carpet coat, and reddening the needles on the branch
his dead weight finally bypassed. The branch
sprang back into place, flecking
Jeremiah's shirt with scarlet.
The fingers holding the Colt clenched, then relaxed.
Jeremiah wiped his mouth. Twisted toward the dirt
track. Surely they'd heard the shots up by the
house.
He thrust the Kerr in his belt and forced himself
to approach the corpse. Insects were already clouding
around Skimmerhorn's shattered skull. Sourness
climbed in Jeremiah's throat as he pulled the
Colt from the dead man's grip.
He straightened up and turned away, his face a
study in confusion and pain.
love you, she'd said that right after she'd whored all
night!
He started to walk. In a moment he was running. Not
toward the dirt track and Rosewood, as he'd
originally planned. Not back to Serena, to protect
her. Let her look after herself. She was quite
accomplished at that!
He fled deep into the pines, where it was rank and
dark. He thought he could escape her there. Escape
the shattering memory of Skimmerhorn's words.
But he found he couldn't escape them-or the fury that
shook him between spells of grief-stricken confusion.
11
No one came hunting for him.
Or if they did, he failed to detect the sounds
of a search. By nightfall he'd lost even minimal
concern about Serena's safety. He was pondering
whether to leave-strike out for some back road and never
see Rosewood again-when he noticed a red shimmer
through the trees.
A light wind had sprung up, scouring some of the
rankness from the air. Fire. Reluctantly, he
left the little dell where he'd spent the day
alternately gripped by a sense of total
betrayal and an overwhelming hatred embracing the
Yanks, the war, and her.
He didn't want to go back. The only thing that
held him was the memory of Henry Rose.
Rosewood was the dead colonel's only monument.
Jeremiah couldn't stand by and permit the house to burn.
He felt it might, despite Grace's
promises. He didn't trust the cavalry
major. He had to go back. He had to discharge this
last obligation to the man who'd saved his life.
When he reached the perimeter of the woods, he broke
open the Colt, swore, and flung it away.
General Skimmerhorn had fired his last two
rounds defending himself.
He felt the Kerr under his shirt. Three bullets
left.
He crept out of the trees and stole forward through the
high weeds. When he reached the slaves' burial
ground, he bellied down between overturned slabs and
broken crosses, peering up the lane. The sky was
bright red, the sound of the conflagration a roar.
Both barns had already burned. Little more than the glowing
beams and rafters remained. As he watched, they
crumbled and crashed inward.
The corn cribs were alight, but the flames were only
beginning to eat through the walls. The smoky air had a
strange tang. Roasting com.
The gin house was on fire as well. It stood
nearest the main building. The wind was blowing from behind
it.
At the head of the lane between the cottages he
glimpsed perhaps two dozen men and women silhouetted
against the blaze. The nigras who hadn't run
away. Then he caught his breath as he recognized
a familiar figure beyond the slaves, standing at
full height on the rim of the stone wall.
He climbed to his knees, then began angling
to his right, toward the cover afforded by the cottages
on that side of the road. He saw no
Yanks up by the house. Perhaps Grace had fired the
buildings, assembled his men, and ridden on. But he
thought he understood the confrontation near the house.
He crept to the porch of the last cottage. From that
vantage point he could make out something metal-bright
in the hands of the man standing guard over the well.
His own Enfield.
He crawled off the porch, hurried past the end of the
cottage, and cut back to the left, running like
someone possessed. As he ran, he moved further
and further away from the cottages, so he could dash
behind the first of the fired Cribs standing at the extreme
right at the head of the lane.
The crib's whole roof was burning. The wind was
driving smoke and clouds of sparks ahead of it.
Once the gin house was fully afire, the combined
heat from, it and the burning cribs would carry the blaze
to Rosewood. For the moment he didn't give a
damn about that. It was Price he wanted.
He kept running. His chest hurt. He tripped
once, landing on his belly and cursing loudly. But the
crackle of the fire covered the sound.
As he sped behind the second crib, the one nearest the
highway, its burning side crumbled outward. He
leaped wide. A splitting beam came
down, nearly braining him. He slapped at sparks
in his hair and kept running straight ahead into the
dark. When he was opposite the front drive, he
skidded to slow himself, and turned toward the piazza.
He searched the lane and the highway.
No tents.
No soldiers.
There was more fire in the sky, now in the direction of
Millen. But the army had gone.
He lunged across the piazza, calculating his best
point of attack. The larder-next to the kitchen. It
led directly onto the rear piazza.
He opened the front door cautiously.
Darkness. Silence.
He dashed through the ruined dining room, and the kitchen where
the lamps had been extinguished. Firelight through the
smoke-stained windows outlined Catherine Rose's
corpse. Candle wax had melted and rehardened at
her head and feet.
He slipped into the larder. Even indoors, the heat
was intense.
He pulled the Kerr from under his shirt. Outside he
heard a voice he recognized. Serena's:
"Price, you've got to let us at the water!"
The man laughed. "No."
"But if we don't wet down the siding, it'll
catch!"
"Let it!"
Three or four men yelled agreement. There was one
fervent, "Amen!" Price had the Enfield. The
blacks were either frightened of it, or siding with him,
Price's voice boomed:
"Let it burn, you white slut. You ain't giving
orders to niggers no more. We're free people!"
Someone clapped. Another "Amen!" Then came a
sound of scuffling. Maum Isabella's cry rang
out:
"We're free to water the house down if we
please!"
"No!" Price boomed back. "I ain't the
only one who wants to see it bum."
"Yes, you are, you damned scalawag nigger. The
rest of these so-called friends of yours are too
scared-or too stupid-to know how mean you feel about
Miss Serena and her poor dead stepmother. You stand
up there with that "gun, thinking you're some almighty
angel-was
That amused Price:
"OF angel of death, Maum. Ready to shoot the
first buck who comes close. Or the first
woman."
"You're just as mean as the worst white soul-driver!"
Maum Isabella shrilled. "Just as mean.
Twice as mean!"
"Old woman," Price warned above the cries of
protest and agreement, "you stay away. Else
I'll drop you with this here."
Jeremiah hit the larder door with his shoulder and
took two long strides across the piazza, the Kerr
coming up in his right hand while his left steadied it.
Beyond the well, where Price stood with his legs
widespread on the rim, menacing the half circle
of slaves, Maum Isabella halted all at
once. Her eyes popped at the sight of
Jeremiah. Several of the other blacks saw him
too. On his right he glimpsed Serena, her red
hair limp, her face sooty.
He smelled the unmistakable aroma of wood
catching fire. The wind was spreading a huge flag
of flame from the gin house and the collapsing cribs,
blowing banners of sparks against the end of the main
building.
Jeremiah had a clear target: Price's
massive body. The big buck saw the reaction
on the black faces. He started to turn,
just as a yellow-skinned slave pointed and yelled:,
"Behind you, Price!"
The yellow-skinned man hurled himself forward, perhaps in
the hope of knocking Price off the well rim, out
of danger. Both hands locked on the Kerr,
Jeremiah aimed carefully; fought an impulse
to let his rage drive him to a fast, inaccurate
shot.
Price spun, sought his target, whipped the
Enfield to his shoulder. Jeremiah fired.
The bullet took Price in the left arm.
Drove him up on tiptoe as it sprayed blood
and fragments of splintered bone like red needles in the
firelight.
Price started to topple forward. The buck bowled
info him, knocking him sideways off the well.
The slaves scattered, shrieking, as Price
disappeared. Running toward the well, Jeremiah
shouted:
"Maum Isabella, grab the Enfield!"
The yellow buck got it first.
Jeremiah was about six feet from the well when the
buck's distorted face popped up on the far
side. The man was trying to help Price to his
feet. Maum Isabella darted toward
them.
A bloodied right hand grasped the well's rim. Like
some kind of dead creature rising from its grave,
Price appeared, pulling himself up. Now he was
using both his right hand, and astonishingly, his left,
even though his left sleeve was soaked red and pierced
by jutting pieces of bone.
Price's hate-filled eyes found Jeremiah.
His face and neck glowed with sweat. A vein in his
throat throbbed.
Jeremiah still had both hands on the Kerr. His
forearms were trembling as he extended the gun. He
nearly couldn't bring himself to look into those fiery
eyes. Maum Isabella was darting and feinting at
the-yellow buck who jabbed with the Enfield's muzzle
to fend her off.
Why doesn't Price fall? No man is that
strong.
"Maum Isabella?" Jeremiah's voice had a
cracked sound. "Stand back!"
Price's red hands gripped the well rim a moment
longer. His eyes glowed bright as the blazing gin
house. Then will and rage seemed to drain from him. He
searched for Jeremiah again; found him. This time, his
eyes seemed duller.
"Mister Jeremiah? You hit me bad. Leave me
be now."
Jeremiah laughed. "Finally remembered my name,
did you?"
"Please." Price lifted his gory right hand.
"Leave me be now.
A memory of Major Grace's remark about the
thunderbolt darted into Jeremiah's mind. He glanced
at Serena. Price uttered an almost plaintive
cry as he watched Jeremiah's face change.
The yellow buck was still sweeping the Enfield in an
arc to drive back three slaves-Leon and two
others. But Maum Isabella had retreated.
All at once he seemed to see Serena in place
of Price. He wasn't frightened any longer. He
felt quite different from when he'd defended himself against
Skimmerhorn. He and the Kerr were welded into one-and
there was joy in the thin curve of his mouth. He fired.
Price shrieked. The bullet blew a black and
red hole in his tattered shirt just below the breastbone.
The nigras screamed. Price fell.
The yellow buck was obviously unfamiliar with the
operation of the Enfield. Jeremiah twisted at the
waist, still holding the Kerr double-handed. The muzzle
pointed at the buck's ear. The buck
dropped the rifled musket and ran toward the dark
at the front of the house. Maum Isabella
flung a stone after him.
Screaming, milling, the remaining nigras didn't
know what to do until Serena wheeled on them:
"Buckets from the kitchen! Hurry, damn you-
Leon! Willis! Get a move on!"
Jeremiah stuck the Kerr back under his shirt,
corn
forted somehow by the heat of the metal against his bare skin.
He swabbed sweat from his eyes.
Serena quickly organized the nigras into a
firefighting line. The stony smile remained fixed
on Jeremiah's face as he walked around the
well. Leon and some of the others began frantically
passing buckets down a hastily formed human chain
as two women-one of them Maum Isabella-worked the
well's crank arm. To reach it, she had to stand on
Price's body.
Jeremiah glanced down at the open-mouthed corpse.
He felt no remorse. He could halfway
admire Price now. The man had been vicious but
in his own way, brave. A worthy adversary.
Jeremiah was proud of having killed him.
Serena rushed to him, pushing hair off her
forehead. There was an odd, almost frightened light in her
blue eyes as she gazed at his curiously amused
expression. He ignored her for a moment, glancing
toward the house. Some of the bucks were piling onto
each other's shoulders to empty buckets and wet
down the end of the building. Even though the barns, the
cribs, and the gin house with its baled cotton and
"packing screw were gone, the heart of Rosewood
would survive. It was the only memorial he could
leave to the colonel.
But Henry Rose had been right there in the field
hospital. War-Sherman's thunderbolt-was a
destroyer. It destroyed hope. He'd learned the
lesson; and it had transformed him.
Serena flung herself into his arms:
"Oh, Jeremiah, I thought they'd carried you off,
or something worse-was
He shoved her away. Seized her wrist, his fingers
biting so hard she winced. He dragged her toward the
piazza.
"Jeremiah, let go! What's wrong with you?"
He paid no attention.
He pulled her through the larder to the kitchen, then
flung her away. She caught herself on the iron
stove, her eyes huge and terror-stricken
as he stepped behind the block bearing Catherine's
body. His mouth remained a bloodless line.

"Jeremiah, I don't understand why you're treating
-"
"You whored for him."
"What?"
"Whored!"
"What are you saying?"
"Grace. You whored for him. Skimmerhorn said so.
Before I shot him."
"You shot-?" Disbelief in her eyes.
"That's right. Back in the pines, this morning.
Grace spared this house because you whored for him."
"Sweetheart-was
As she said it and started around the block, he called
her the foulest name he knew.
She stopped, stunned. "Jeremiah, I-I had
to!"
"You said you cared about me. You don't. I was taken
in for a while, but now I know it's just the money you
want, not me. You wanted the house too. And there's
not a thing you won't do to get what you want, is there?
Lie. Whore-was
"Don't keep saying that!" Serena lunged
at the still body. "She called my mama that name.
'Whore," she said. "Whore, whore!" She
struck Catherine's waxy cheek. The pale head
flopped over on the boneless neck.
Recovering, she pleaded:
"Jeremiah, I had to do what Grace asked!"
"He didn't ask. You begged. Skimmerhorn
told me."
Caught, she started to say something else. But he
saw
the truth on her face. All at once her eyes
looked crazed.
"Admit you begged him, Serena."
"Yes." She spat it again. "Yes! He was good,
too. Almost as good as a lot of the others. Better'n
you'd ever be! You're just a boy!"
"A dumb boy with money you wanted. Christ, you're
as dishonorable as the rest. Catherine tried to warn
me. But I was too stupid to listen. Well, I'm
not going to stay here. You've got the house now. I
wish your father or Catherine had it instead of you, but-was
A tired shrug.
"Nothing I can do about that."
Then, louder:
"You should have died instead of your stepmother."
"I'm glad she's dead. I'm glad some soldier
whose name I'll never know caught her and drowned her.
Maybe he raped her again before he pushed her in the
water. I hope he raped her till it hurt.
Till it drove her crazy!"
He shuddered. "You pretended to be very sorry when you
thought you still had me fooled. You're good at saying one
thing and doing another. Almost as good as the Yanks and
Billy Sherman."
"She called my mama a whore!"
"I expect she was right," he said, and turned
away.
"Goodbye, Serena."
.
iv
He started toward the dining room. Heard her breathing
quicken; then a sound he didn't recognize until
she came rushing at him. The sound had been a
drawer sliding.
He his back against the wall. Saw demented eyes
reflecting the outside fire; a butcher knife
raised in her grimy fist
She stabbed downward.
Weary as he was, the fear pumping in him gave him
just enough quickness. He jerked his head to the side.
The blade raked his cheek and snapped in half when
it struck the door beside his head.
He caught her wrist with his left hand as she tried
to cut him with the broken blade. Unaccountably,
tears misted his eyes:
"She said you weren't moral. She never told me you
were insane."
"Take your damn money! I don't care. I'll
find someone else!" She was hysterical. "Someone
who's rich and-and-was She was spitting at him; he
felt the spray wetting his already damp cheeks. Her
right arm shook. He had to push hard to keep the
shattered but still lethal knife from his throat.
"And a man. Not a boy! Not a child! Not a baby.
Baby, baby, baby!"
As she screamed he pulled the Kerr with his right hand and
fired the last bullet into her stomach.
Dark woods arching over a dark road. Faint
fire in the sky, in the direction of Millen.
He was running again.
He didn't dare do anything else. Maum
Isabella had heard the shot and rushed in to find him
standing over Serena's lifeless body. She'd cried
one word:
"Murderer!"
Where would he go? He didn't know. But he had
to get away.
Westward, that was the best direction. Out of the path of
Sherman's army. As he limped along, it began
to dawn on him that he could never go back
to Virginia. The war would end; people like the Claypools
would return to Jefferson County and ask how
Catherine and
Serena Rose had died. Maum Isabella would
tell them, and one day, someone might come riding
to Lexington to find him.
He had to flee a long way, long way. Never
tell Fan what he'd done. Never give her the
slightest hint. To keep from hurting her. And to keep
from being found.
He'd tried to be honorable, and this was how it had
ended. There was no place for honor in war. Or in
the world.
God, how Serena had gulled him! And he'd been
so willing! Not merely willing. Eager. He'd had
warnings about her; hints of her deception. He'd
ignored them, permitting himself to succumb to her
charms-and her lies:
still love you.
The experience had changed him, he knew
that. He'd killed three people since sunup and hardly
felt any guilt.
That didn't alter his desperate situation; a
situation he faced with relative calm until he
reached a ford in a creek near the Ogeechee. He
halted on the bank, overcome.
He sat ,down and wept for twenty minutes.
At the end, he glanced up, wiped his face,
blinked at the stars, and thought:
-I'm sorry I failed you, Colonel. You
told me war ruined people, and you were right. It ruins them
because they don't understand how to fight and win. I understand
now.
He splashed into the ford, less emotional. He'd
definitely head west. That was safest. Perhaps he'd
go far west. Hundreds of miles away, he might
be safe from the wrath of the unforgiving Yanks who'd
keep the war going in their own way even after the South
surrendered.
He paused in the middle of the ford, gazing down at his
fragmented image in the water. He felt naked and
incomplete without a weapon.
Should have gone back for the Enfield. It had been too
dangerous with Maum Isabella screaming at him.
He'd find another. Steal one. Kill for
one, if need be. The war had taught him a good many
fine, valuable skills.
He kept gazing into the water. There lies
Jeremiah Kent. Served dishonorably in the
conflict between the states; died; and rose again-
Rose as a new man who understood the world and how it
functioned.
Without honor.
Without honesty.
Without pity.
Jeremiah Kent. He probably didn't dare
use that name any longer. What would he call himself?
He shifted his left leg. The water image
rippled apart, no longer recognizable.
Straightening his shoulders, he stumbled up the other
side of the ford, a last spill of starlight scattering
on the white streak in his hair and his emotionless face
before he disappeared into the wooded dark. :
'Let 'em Up Easy*
THE BOXCAR TRUCKS clattered. But not so
loudly Gideon couldn't hear the pale artillery
captain reading from the paper:
"After four years of arduous service marked
by unsurpassed courage and fortitude, the Army of
Northern Virginia has been compelled
to yield to overwhelming numbers and resources"
The artilleryman was seated with his back to the
opposite wall of the car, about four feet
to Gideon's left. Directly across the way,
another Confederate-a Virginian, flanked by two
more paroled prisoners-puffed one of the cigars he'd
bought in the B and O depot. His face grew more and
more disgusted as the artilleryman kept reading for the
benefit of the nearby:
need not tell the brave survivors of so many
hard-fought battles, who have remained steadfast to the
last, that I have consented to this result from no distrust of
them.
was 'But feeling that valor and devotion could
accomplish nothing that comwd compensate for the loss that must
have attended the continuance of the contest. I determined
to avoid the useless sacrifice of those whose past
services have endeared them to their countrymen." ?"'
"Shit," the Virginian said, and stuck the cigar
back in his mouth.
The artilleryman twisted his head to the left, frowned
at the source of the interruption and went on:
was "By the terms of the agreement officers and men can
return to their homes, and remain until exchanged.
You will take with you-" his
"Stop reading that!" the Virginian demanded, the cigar
nearly bitten in half between his teeth. "It's over
a month old-and every line says coward."
The artilleryman gave him a cool stare. "I
wouldn't refer to anything written by our former commander as
cowardly, sir. This is the first reprinting I've
seen of his general order disbanding the army."
"Well, I don't want to hear it."
"Then don't listen."
"Some of us want to hear it," Gideon said.
"Continue, sir."
The Virginian's look was hostile, the
artilleryman's appreciative. The latter
resumed:
was "comtake with you the satisfaction that proceeds from the
consciousness of duty faithfully performed, and 1
earnestly pray that a Merciful God will extend to you
His blessing and protection." his
The pale man faltered. He cleared his throat.
"With an unceasing admiration of your constancy and
devotion to your country, and grateful remembrance of
your kind and generous consideration for myself, I bid you
all an-affectionate farewell." His
Slowly, the artilleryman folded the paper;
murmured:
"It's signed 'R. E. Lee. General"."
He let the hand with the paper fall between his knees.
Because of the bad light in the car, Gideon couldn't be
sure whether there were tears in the man's eyes.
None in the Virginian's, though. He shook his
head. Growled another obscenity. He was in his
early thirties, lank and sallow. He wore a
torn linen duster over a farmer's shirt and
trousers.
"Yella," he said emphatically. The soldiers
on either side of him nodded tentative agreement.
The artilleryman's head jerked up; Gideon almost
expected a challenge.
"Let "em Up Easy"263
But the Virginian was too busy focusing attention
on himself.
"One of Lee's own officers had the right idea.
Said all troops still in the field should head for the
hills. Keep the war going!"
The artilleryman shook his head, as if unable
to comprehend such stupidity. He leaned back against the
boxcar wall and shut his eyes.
"But, no! The gray fox wouldn't have it. Gaimed the
country'd take years to recover if the boys were in
the hills, bushwhacking. I say what's
wrong with that? Strikes me old Marse Robert was
just plain tired of fighting. So he put on his
sword, sashayed up to that farmhouse, and rolled over
for Grant like a tame dog. Then he wrote that
piece of sentimental swill!"
A stab of the cigar toward the artilleryman. There was
no response. The pale soldier was dozing; or
pretending to doze. He wouldn't waste energy on the
Virginian.
Beneath the leather patch covering his left eye socket,
Gideon felt an annoying itch. He fought the
impulse to lift the patch and push at his upper
lid. Instead he smoothed his long, tawny beard.
He didn't know which was worse, the itch or the
Virginian's ranting.
To watch the man, Gideon kept his head turned a
bit to the left. For about a month after Dr. Lemon
had rushed him to the prison surgery, administered
ether, and removed his burned eye, he'd been unable
to focus his good eye properly. Gradually, though,
he'd trained himself to keep his head turned slightly
at all times, so one eye took in almost as much as
two had before. By now the habit was becoming
unconscious.
Some of the forty Confederates in the car were still
listening to the lanky man's remarks. But not all.
Down at the other end, one boy in butternut rested
his head on his forearms, his forearms on his knees, and
wept without sound, imprisoned in some secret
grief. Most of
the other men either seemed indifferent to the Virginian,
or like Gideon., resentful.
"Why, even my old chief, Colonel Mosby-was
The man plucked the cigar from his mouth and cut a
smoky arc with the stub held between his index and middle
finger. The smoke whipped away toward a hole
chopped in the side of the car above him. The hole let
in flickering shafts of sunlight and fresh air. But
not enough air to cleanse the car of the stench of dirt and
sweat and wounds still oozing pus.
"comhe disbanded the rangers last month.
Voluntarily! I read about it right after I was let
out. Couldn't believe it-John Mosby truckling
to the Yanks for a parole! Said he was a soldier, not
a highwayman."
The man spat into the straw between his knees.
"Wanted to get his shingle back up so he could
practice law again. I'll tell you, I about
puked. There weren't any tougher fighters than
John Mosby's Partisan Rangers.
We had less than two hundred men most of the time,
and a lot of the boys tended their fields by day and rode
by night. Even so, with Yanks all over the place,
we had most of Loudoun and Fauquier counties under
control. People took to calling the territory
Mosby's Confederacy. Before I got trapped by some
of Custer's men, Mosby was a regular fighting
cock. Now, all of a sudden, he up and quits just
like Lee!"
"I wish you'd quit, too," Gideon said in a
weary voice. "The war's over."
Slowly the Virginian drew the cigar from his teeth.
"You speakin" to me?"
"That's right. What the hell good does it do to keep
talking that way?"
"I'll talk any way I blasted please. They
haven't whipped all of us yet. They haven't
whipped Captain Leonidas Worthing!"
"Well," Gideon replied with a sour smile, "you
just
"Let "em Up Easy"265
go right on fighting, then. But be good enough to do it
silently."
The man in the duster surveyed Gideon's filthy
overcoat; saw no emblems of rank.
"Where'd you get on this train, soldier?"
"Major," Gideon snapped. "Major Kent of
Stuart's cavalry. I got on at
Baltimore, just like you."
Worthing absorbed the information. Gideon ranked
him-though it really made no difference since Worthing
had belonged to what was essentially a guerrilla
group. It made no difference now that the meeting had
taken place at Appomattox Station; now that the
Army of Northern Virginia had surrendered and
received General Order Number Nine; now that Fort
Delaware had become a memory, though one
Gideon would carry all his life.
There, Dr. Cincinnatus Lemon had summoned
other guards, succeeded in breaking into Tillotson's
office, and ordered Gideon rushed to his surgery
table where he discovered the heated stick had penetrated
Gideon's cornea.
For the sake of speed, Lemon had chosen to do an
evisceration, rather than a relatively slower
enucleation which took the whole eyeball and its
connective muscle. "Damned medical
professors can't make up their minds which is best
anyway," Lemon informed him later. "We've
been doing enucleations since "41, but the
pedants still quibble, quibble, quibble!"
Lemon had widened the cornea! opening with a
scalpel, scooped out the contents of the sclera with an
evisceration spoon, then repaired the cornea with
silk sutures. Afterward, regular applications of
mercuric chloride ointment prepared to his
specifications kept the site of the operation clean.
Gideon had become despondent when he discovered
he'd lost part of his vision. But Dr. Lemon
waved every complaint aside, growling that it was an
insult to his
skill. It was Lemon himself who brought a hand
glass and forced Gideon to look at his own face
for the first time.
He was startled. The eyelids overlapped neatly;
just a slight bulge suggested the empty sclera beneath.
The eyeball itself, gristly white and lacking a
pupil, was far from pretty. But the closed lids
hid it well, and in a way not at all disfiguring.
As if he were discussing a choice of menu items,
Lemon held a bedside debate with himself on the
merits of a prosthesis versus a patch. He
didn't care for the quality of available artificial
eyes, and thus made Gideon's decision for him.
It had to be a patch. Lent a man a
certain air of dash and mystery, didn't Gideon
agree? Lemon's bristly good cheer was
infectious. Gideon soon stopped thinking how
unfortunate he was, and became thankful he'd
pulled through. His spirits improved even more when Lemon
arrived with word that he'd succeeded in getting
Tillotson transferred to the most squalid and
dangerous shed in the prison-the one housing the
criminals from the Union army. All in all,
Gideon would be eternally grateful to the skillful,
kindly doctor.
But now he was impatient to get home to Margaret and
Eleanor, and to begin piecing his life back together
comthough he had no idea how he'd do it.
That was what frightened so many of the silent men in the car,
he supposed. How would they start again? Unless they
hailed from family farms, what could they do to earn a
living? The cities would be flooded with returning
veterans as well as hundreds of thousands of freed
nigras. Gideon was eager to start over, but fearful
there'd be no place.
For the present, he drove that particular worry from his
mind.
"So," Worthing said to him, mockingly, "you're
another one who thinks we should have-quit like
we did?"
backslash ,et "em Up
"We were beaten. What else could we do?"' Worthing
leaned forward. "Keep fighting." Gideon shook his
head. "You heard Lee's order. They say he was
sick of watching men die for nothing. When he lost the
Petersburg line, he knew it was the end. He
did the right thing."
"Not for me. You sound like Old Abe! Go home.
Forgive. Forget. Those Republicans won't
forgive anything! That Johnny Booth should have shot the
whole damn pack of "em, not just Lincoln."
If Worthing hoped for a response from the scathingly
delivered remark about the dead President, he was
disappointed. Gideon admired the way Lincoln
had behaved during the last few days of his life.
According to the papers, he'd gone to Richmond on a
James River steamer less than forty-eight hours
after Davis had abandoned the city and Lee had given
up the Petersburg lines. Richmond's new
military governor had asked Lincoln how to treat
the people of the city and he'd replied, "If I were in your
place I'd let 'em up easy."
Gideon would be eternally grateful for those words.
Before he'd embarked on the trip back
to Virginia, Dr. Lemon had voluntarily
telegraphed Richmond for him; telegraphed
Margaret and received a four-word reply:
All well. Hurry home.
She didn't know about his eye. But at least she'd
survived the devastation of the city that Sunday in
April when Davis and his cabinet had fled
by railroad for Danville, the three trestles
over the James burned and blown behind them. After
supply and ammunition warehouses had been torched
so they wouldn't fall into enemy hands, a large area
of the city had been gutted by the spreading fire. That
same night Admiral Semmes had blown up his
pathetically small James River Squadron;
shells in the magazines had erupted for hours, like
an aerial display on the Fourth of July.
Presumably Margaret might have seen the first of the
Federals coming into Richmond shortly after seven the
next morning. They'd come from the east.
Cavalrymen.
Black cavalrymen.
Maybe she'd even seen Lincoln himself walk all
the way up from Rockett's Landing to the center of the
city, accompanied by his son Tad and a small
military guard. Nigras had poured into the
streets to watch him pass. Clapped. Sung
hymns. Even knelt in front of him. During that
visit, he'd told the military governor to
"let 'em up easy" On his way home, near
City Point, a band on the presidential steamer
had serenaded him. He'd called for "Dixie,"
saying with a smile that the melody was now Federal
property. The whole nation's propertyst
And then he'd been shot in his box at Ford's
Theatre.
Trying to keep frustration out of his voice, Gideon
asked Worthing, "You plan to keep on fighting, do
1 you?"
Worthing peered at the end of his cigar. "I expect
I got to live just like anybody else. Before the war,
I left Loudoun County to work on railroads
all over the South. Surveying, grading, laying
track-I'll get me another railroad job if
I can. But I don't aim to forget what happened."
"And fight about it?"
"Should the occasion arise-was Worthing let the sentence
hang, a smug smile on his face.
"You're a damn fool," Gideon said, turning
away. Worthing flung the cigar down and jumped
to his feet. "Don't talk to me like that,
you son of a bitch!" The butt smoldered in the
straw, ignored as Worthing lurched across the car.
Men stirred in the gloom. Sleepers woke at the
sound of an altercation-and at the slowing of the rhythm of the
trucks. The B and O special was grinding to a
halt
"Let 'em Up Easy"
Gideon shoved up from the floor, disgusted that he still
had to keep on battling-and with one of his own kind.
Other men, including the artilleryman, tried to step
between them:
"No call for this, boys."
"We're all tired."
"It's been a damn long trip for all of us."
Worthing pushed and batted at the intervening arms.
"I'm not gonna take any mouth from a coward!"
Gideon refused to be stared down. "All right,"
he sighed. "If you want to keep your war going,
I'll accommodate you."
Someone stamped on the cigar and smoking straw as
Worthing reached across the arms of the men trying to keep
him separated from Gideon. The boxcar rocked to a
stop. Worthing swayed, "off balance.
The door rolled back, flooding the smoky
interior with the sunlight of a May day in
1865. Gideon's right eye slitted against the
golden glare. A gray-haired, heavy-set
brakeman in a ragged blue Union overcoat
leaned into the boxcar.
"Lads?" he shouted. "Time for a stretch!"
Or a fight, Gideon thought.
ii
The weeping boy never raised his head. Worthing
glanced around to the brakeman:
"Why the devil are we stopping?"
"This here's Relay House. Switch point. 'Fore
we go on to Washington, we got to wait for a train
comin" from Annapolis with some more of you uncaged
birds."
Gideon's eye adjusted to the brilliant light.
He saw rusty tracks, and beyond, spring-green
hills.
Switching his gaze back to Worthing, he said, "We
can discuss our differences outside. More room." His
tone unmistakably said he was prepared to do something
besides carry on a discussion.
Worthing's unpleasant eyes scrutinized him,
measuring his size and probable strength. Despite the
patch on his eye, Gideon looked formidable.
The brakeman scratched a graying
eyebrow. "What the hell's goin' on in there,
boys? Don't none of you want a breath of air?"
A man with the right leg of his gray trousers pinned up
at the knee manuevered his padded crutch under his
armpit. Steadying himself by pushing his left palm against
the wall of the car, he hopped toward the door:
"I do. This place stinks to hell."
Gideon continued to stare at Worthing with one
sun-touched blue eye:
"Well, friend?"
Worthing finally smiled in a contemptuous way.
"Hell, I'm not gonna quarrel with a wounded man.
Even a yella one."
"Don't worry about my sight."
"No, I don't fight cripples." Worthing
pulled a fresh cigar from his duster; lit it as he
stalked toward the rectangle of light. Gideon
suspected Worthing had said one thing while meaning quite
another. Even though one of Gideon's eyes was
useless, Worthing had decided it might be an even
contest. He probably didn't care for even
contests.
Worthing shoved the man on the crutch out of the way.
Someone snickered. Worthing's neck reddened. As
he poised to jump down, he was blocked
by the blue coated brakeman standing close to the
door. He booted the brakeman under the chin.
Several of the Confederates yelled in surprise and
disgust. The gray-haired man sprawled on the
gravel between the tracks. Worthing jumped down.
Gideon knew he should stay out of it, but he was so
sick of men like this-the Tillotsons for whom the war
had be
"Let "em Up Easy"271
come an end instead of a means-that his bad temper got
the better of him. He shouldered past the
artilleryman and the others who'd been attempting
to prevent a fight. He hurled himself through the open
door onto Worthing's back, driving him to the
ground.
in
Grimy Confederates began to pour out of the long line
of boxcars and stream toward Gideon and Worthing from
both directions. But Gideon didn't intend
to give them a prolonged show. He had the
advantage, and he used it.
He dragged Worthing to his feet from behind; pulled
Worthing around. The Virginian's stubbled face
twisted in alarm. Evidently Gideon's strength
surprised him. He tried to stab his
freshly lit cigar against Gideon's cheek. caret
Gideon ducked, punched Worthing in the stomach
to double him. Then, with his other fist, he delivered a
hard chopping uppercut to Worthing's mouth. Worthing
reeled back, blood running from a cut in his lip.
Some soldiers behind Worthing cushioned his fall. The
Virginian tried to struggle free. Before he could,
Gideon shouted:
"Put him in another car or I'll kill him."
The soldiers saw the intensity of Gideon's
expression and dragged Worthing away:
"Come along, now."
"Come on this way, Cap'n."
"Ain't right that two who fought on the same side should
go at each other."
Worthing protested, screaming curses from his
bloodied mouth. But Gideon noticed the
Virginian didn't make more than a token effort
to escape those restraining him.
Panting, Gideon dropped his fists. His
heartbeat slowed. He was quietly thankful the
fight had been so
brief; thankful Worthing had turned out to be
largely bluster-at least against an adversary who could
hold his own.
He walked over to the gray-haired brakeman who
was still seated on the ground, looking baffled: "What the
hell did I do to, that Reb?" "He was mad at
me, not you." "Could have fooled me."
Gideon grasped the man's arm and helped him
to his feet. "He hurt you?"
"Not much." The man worked his jaw back and forth.
Smiled. "Thank you, soldier. Miller's the name.
Daphnis O. Miller."
"Beg pardon? Your* first name is-?"
"Daphnis." The man pulled a face. "Don't
know what it means and never have. Sounds like it belongs
to a woman. I think my mother made a mistake."
Gideon smiled. "Oh, I doubt it." "You can,
but I don't. It's been the curse of my life."
"Where are you from, Mr. Miller?" "Jersey City.
Got temporarily promoted from switchman
to brakeman by the grand and glorious United States
army. What's your name, young fellow?" "Gideon
Kent."
"Pleasure to meet you." Miller extended his hand.
They shook. In the simple greeting, flesh against
flesh, Gideon suddenly found a small hope.
The issue of an independent and sovereign South
had been settled. If a Union
trainman and a former Confederate officer could
impulsively clasp hands, maybe the country could
make a start at burying the animosities of three
generations and healing the wounds of four years of carnage
and bitterness. He felt a little more certain of it when
several of the hundred or so Confederates taking the
air outside the long train paused to apologize
to Miller for Worthing's attack. The paroled
Confederates began to wander across the
"Let 'em Up Easy"273
switch tracks and sprawl on a grassy bank.
A balmy breeze warmed Gideon's unwashed
face.
"Jersey City, you said. You're a fair distance from
home, Mr. Miller."
"That's so," the brakeman nodded. "But they need us
to run these prisoner trains-beg your pardon.
Guess you ain't a prisoner any more."
"Take it you're a railroad man?"
"That's right. Whore were you locked up?"
"Fort Delaware."
Miller grimaced. "Heard that was a hellhole."
"Compared to the fort, I expect hell would be a
spa."
"A what?"
"Resort. Vacation place."
Gideon restrained a smile; the reading had
helped. Dr. Lemon had somehow cajoled and
threatened until Tillotson had returned the
stolen books, which Gideon had devoured while he
was recuperating in the prison infirmary. Now and again
he tried a new, unfamiliar word; always with a bit
of awkwardness, and always feeling he might be thought
to be acting superior by the person to whom he uttered
the word. But he didn't mean to sound superior. He
simply needed to practice.
"What branch of service you from?" Miller
inquired.
"Cavalry. Jeb Stuart's. I was captured at
Yellow Tavern."
"Mighty fine outfit, the papers said."
Quietly: "That's understating it."
"Where's your home, Kent?"
"Lexington, Virginia, originally. Presently
Richmond."
"Did you have a trade before the war?"
Gideon's stomach quivered. "No, none. I was
too thick-headed to learn one. I'll pay for it
now. I have a wife and baby to support. I'll have
to find work."
In spite of the difficulties he faced in doing that,
he'd made one firm decision in prison. Even
if his father offered,
he wouldn't accept so much as one dollar of help.
The California inheritance would be his someday. But
until it was, he meant to make his way on his
own, hardship or no. If he didn't, he'd have
no pride of accomplishment.
"Jobs are gonna be mighty scarce," Daphnis
Miller observed as they started strolling beside the
train.
"And not too many available for a man who's had bind,
I suspect."
It was said with a smile, and no trace of self-pity.
Yet the truth of his situation haunted him. What
could a man do who was less than whole?
"Well," Miller chuckled, "you ever get
desperate enough to work in a rail yard, come to Jersey
City an" look me up."
"Railroading a rough business, is it?"
"Let's put it this way. A fellow who couples
cars for a living and has both hands, all his fingers,
an' two good legs is one of three things: Mighty
quick, mighty lucky- or new on the job."
Gideon laughed. A whistle sounded
eastward, the source hidden by the boxcars. The chug
of a second train approaching grew steadily
louder. Miller answered a hail from another
brakeman up near the engine:
"Keep your pants on, Feeny, I'll be there.
Kent, I truly "predated what you done. That
Reb looked as if he wanted to tear me apart."
"He wanted to tear somebody apart. I don't think
it mattered who it was."
"Damn job's gettin" as bad as workin' in the
Erie yards. Well, so long. Thanks again."
"Mr. Miller?"
The trainman turned.
"Do me one small favor in return."
Miller's white eyebrow lifted, inquiringly.
"Don't say Reb any more. We're all
Americans again."
"Let 'em Up Easy8275
Miller smiled in a sheepish way. "Guess
you're right. Didn't mean anything nasty by it. But
it's gonna take a while to get out of the habit."
He waved and hurried off.
Gideon leaned against the boxcar, fighting to keep his
hand down. The blind eye itched again. The brakeman was
right. Men on both sides would be a long
time breaking the habit of using certain words.
Reb.
Traitor.
Damn Yank.
Enemy.
Men would be a long time forgetting.
iv
Presently, more boxcars were switched and coupled to the
end of the first train. The whistle blew three times and the
Confederates began to clamber back aboard the cars.
Spirits had unproved. There was a good deal of laughing
and joking.
Gideon sank down in the place he'd occupied
before. Miller appeared outside, spied him, and
waved as he slid the door shut, leaving only the
chopped hole to ventilate the boxcar as the train
resumed its journey to Washington.
So much to do, Gideon thought. See if my little
girl even recognizes me. Doubt if she will.
Find a way to support Margaret.
Try to discover what's become of Matt and
Jeremiah.
Visit my mother down in Lexington-
For a moment the odds against successfully beginning a
new life seemed overwhelming.
Especially when he remembered Worthing and
Tillotson. There were haters on both sides.
They'd make Lincoln's idea-"Let 'em up
easy"-difficult to turn into a reality. Andwiththe
Illinois President gone and his policies already
being
disavowed by many Northerners, the auspices were poor.
Indeed, they hadn't been too promising while
Lincoln was still alive. Gideon had studied an
account of the hysterical celebration in Washington two
nights after Davis" abandonment of Richmond.
Lee had not yet surrendered and even then, on a
platform in front of the Patent Office, Vice
President Andrew Johnson had roared to a howling
mob that he would hang Jefferson Davis "twenty
times." As for others who'd participated in the
rebellion-Gideon could recall Johnson's
chilling words almost exactly:
"I would arrest them, I would try them, I would
convict them, and I would hang them. Treason must be
made odious! Traitors must be punished and
impoverished!"
So cried the obscure Tennessee Democrat, under
fixtures specially arranged to blaze the word
UNION from the top of the pillars of the
Patent Office on the night all Washington shone
with candle and gas illuminations to celebrate the fall
of the enemy capital. Now Johnson was serving in the
office Lincoln had still held on that evening when
Johnson had shouted, "Hang, hang!"
Fortunately no one had expressed an interest in
hanging Gideon. He was alive, and there was a
wonderful, warm girl waiting for him in Richmond.
He intended to devote himself to her and to their daughter;
to giving them a comfortable, secure existence. He was
done with war. Never again would he actively seek a
fight, for whatever lofty principles. To that he'd
made up his mind.
His thoughts kept returning to Margaret. They'd
spent very little time together during the past three years, so
each memory was just that much more vivid.
The sight of her. The feel of her lying close in the
cool hours of the night. Her ardor as a wife-it
sent a pleasurable thrill of anticipation chasing through
him.
Somehow, no matter how formidable the obstacles,
"Let 'em Up Easy8211
they'd overcome them together. Rebuild the life-the
marriage-begun when he'd returned to Richmond
after First Manassas. He felt more
optimistic when he recalled the innate decency of
Northerners such as Dr. Lemon and the trainman,
Miller, with his words about looking him up in Jersey
City. Miller obviously hadn't meant what he
said; he'd merely been trying to express his
gratitude in familiar terms. But at least he'd
said something. It was encouraging.
Down at the end of the car, the boy in gray was still
crying. His back heaved, but Gideon could hear no
sound above the rattle of the wheels.
He smoothed his beard again, clambered up, and
stepped over outstretched legs. Maybe there was
something he could do to alleviate the boy's misery.
He knelt beside him. Laid an arm across the
shuddering, butternut-clad shoulders.
"Son?"
Not even twenty-two years old himself, Gideon was
calling this stripling son. But he saw nothing
incongruous. He'd lived through enough struggle, enough
perils, for three adult lifetimes.
"Son?" he repeated.
No answer.
"Any way I can help?"
Still silence. The boy didn't raise his head.
Gently, Gideon patted his back. After
a moment the violent spasms began to subside.
Gideon remained where he was, neither speaking nor
being spoken to, just moving his hand up and down, up and
down, softly; an almost fatherly touch. Somehow it
helped the boy.
The whistle on the Baltimore and Ohio engine
shrieked. The boxcars clattered faster, carrying those
wounded in body and those wounded in spirit on toward home.
Book Three The Fire Road
Escape to the West
HE FIRED. RELOADED. Fired again. Every round
seemed to miss.
The gray-faced men were cleverly hiding in the tangled
second-growth timber fifty yards out in front
of the log and brush breastwork. With startling abruptness,
one or two would dart from cover, shoot, and jump
back out of sight. He fired at one such marksman
and an instant later, blinked. Where there'd been a
target, there was nothing but the smoke.
Beside him, a boy no more than seventeen took a
ball in the side of his face. The boy's shriek of
pain turned to a whimper as he fell. The crackle
of gunfire up and down the Union defense line
quickly muffled the sound.
He squinted over the breastwork then,
wondering whether the Irish Brigade of
Hancock's II Corps had been sent into the
tangled woodland known as the Wilderness, or into the
nether regions.
Smoke billowed everywhere. Artillery rumbled like a
storm in a sky he couldn't see. Not far overhead,
tree branches formed a thick web that shut out most
of the late afternoon light above, and intensified the light
below: the spurting flash from rifle muzzles, the
flickering light of large limbs and small twigs
blazing and raining sparks.
Directly over him, a branch crumbled apart. A
hot piece of charred wood dropped onto his
neck. He yelped, jerked the trigger, saw a
slab of bark fly from
one of the gargoyle trees behind which the enemy lurked.
Even this deep in the forest, he could feel a fairly
stiff breeze blowing. Somehow it failed to dispel the
smoke, though it fanned the scattered fires. The
Rebs kept sniping.
On his right, young replacements who'd joined the
Brigade only weeks ago scrambled back as
balls chunked into the crazily piled, hastily cut
logs. One of the boys cried out:
"Mother of Mary! She's catchin"!"
The brush atop the logs a yard to his right burst
into flame. Snapping, roaring, the fire raced both
ways along the improvised fortification. More men of the
Brigade leaped away. Out in the shifting red
smoke, the Rebs howled in pain or in defiance and
kept volleying.
The fire swept past him, not a foot in front of
his nose. The intense heat drove him back. In
moments, the entire breastwork was burning.
He heard a bugle call. The blare was suddenly
aborted by a scream. Someone shouted, "Fall
back! Fall back!"
Beyond the barrier of fire, the gray soldiers seemed
to be on the move. He tried to find a target, then
wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of a hand. He
couldn't believe what he was witnessing.
Among the stunted trees, boys in butternut were
advancing. Some had no weapons. In silence, they
pleaded for mercy with outstretched hands. Minie balls
smashed into their soiled blouses, piercing the fabric.
No blood ran from the wounds.
He fought back a desire to scream and flee from this
impossible battle taking place below the
Rapidan. He clutched his rifle with both hands,
as if gripping it would help keep his duty
uppermost in his mind; keep him from running away.
The wall of fire rose higher.
Four feet.
Six.
From the other side, a woman called his name:
"Michael?"
He raised on tiptoe, risking death from the
Confederate balls that had begun to whiz past again. A
gust of wind tore holes in the flames. He saw
her wandering among the gray men; saw her small,
well-proportioned body with exquisite clarity in
spite of the smoke. Her glossy dark hair had a
scarlet nimbus. Her bright blue eyes
reflected the glare of burning trees.
Repeatedly, the advancing soldiers jostled her.
They seemed unaware of her presence.
"Michael?"
A few Union soldiers were returning the
Confederate volleys. Any second she'd be
hit.
"Julia, go back!"
She didn't hear. Her head kept turning, her
eyes searching for him.
He flung down his rifle, crouched, and ran at the
tilde burning breastwork. His left boot
slipped on the body of a dead comrade. His leap was
bad. He crashed chest-first into the sagging timber.
Fire scorched his ragged blouse. The last two
metal buttons dropped off, their threads burned
away. The pain on his exposed skin was hideous, but
he bore it, scrambling up and over the collapsing
fortification. By the time he cleared it, both his
sleeves were afire.
He could still see her out there, helpless and unable
to locate him. The gray men, pleading with their hands,
continued to brush by.
"Julia? Here I am!" He waved his arms. The
blue sleeves trailed fire. She'd come all this
way to find him. He couldn't abandon her.
"Here, Julia. Here!"
A Confederate rifleman stepped from a turbulent
cloud of smoke. Shot. Michael felt the ball
slam into his belly.
Fire curled up his legs, filling his nostrils
with the stench of burned leather. Another ball struck his
left shoulder. She turned away in the red murk,
shaking her head sadly. She started back to the
gargoyle trees where the Rebel wounded flailed and
bayed.
"Julia?
Afire and hit, he began to topple forward. A
third Rebel ball thumped into his body.
Despairing, he continued to fall slowly; so
slowly. At the impact of a fourth ball, he
heard a deep, sonorous tolling.
He took another bullet in his left thigh. The
bell tolled.
He took one in his right arm. The bell tolled.
Soon it was pealing without pause. It was the only
sound he heard. It mocked his failure to reach the
woman he wanted against all reason. It knelled
his death in the Wilderness as he drifted face-first
into a pit of dark where ground had been only a moment
before.

Someone jabbed his hip.
Terrified, he heard men grumbling. Sounds of
motion above the bell's strident clang.
Michael Boyle's eyes popped open. He
gasped loudly the instant he realized he'd been
dreaming again.
He lay on his side in the cramped top bunk.
In tiers of three, the bunks lined the walls of the
eighty-five-foot railroad car lit at each
end by a hanging lamp.
Moment by moment, the nightmare was fading. He searched
for another familiar detail; found it in the pale
rectangle of the charcoal drawing he'd tacked to the
wall beside his head. Once he saw the drawing, he
knew, finally and positively, that he was alive and
whole.
Dry-mouthed, he scratched his crotch, wondering
whether the cooties had gotten him at last. The
bell beside the door at the car's end was being rung
to wake the workers. Again he felt a jab on his
hip.
He rolled over to face the aisle. The man who
occupied the bunk below, Sean Murphy, stood on
his own bed, his head on a level with Michael's
eyes. Murphy was fifty or thereabouts, robust,
pie-faced, genial. He had surprisingly little
gray in his curly, copper-colored hair and huge
fan of a beard. He poked Michael a third time.
"Sleep all mornin', lad, and our boss'll be
on your ass worse than he is already. Rise an'
shine!"
"I'm coming," Michael growled. He sat up without
thinking, banged his head on the wooden roof, and
swore.
He swung his legs out of the bunk and
jumped down among the other Paddies tumbling from their
bunks with varying degrees of speed and ill humor.
Murphy's bright blue-green eyes raked
Michael's six-foot frame; noted the sweat
rings under the arms of his long underwear. Murphy
clucked his tongue.
"You must have had some night, Michael me boy."
"What makes you say that?"
"For the last hour 'twas all I could do to catch a
few winks. You been tossin' and babblin' something
awful. What was goin' through your head?"
Michael stepped on the edge of the empty bottom
bunk, reached to the lower end of his own, and dragged out his
faded flannel shirt, trousers, and boots. He
dumped the clothing in the aisle, where he proceeded
to dress amidst the buffeting of earlier risers already
stumbling toward the end of the car.
He disliked having to answer Murphy's question. How
could he admit he'd been dreaming of a woman who
didn't belong to him and never would? A woman
he'd come all the way out here to escape and couldn't?
Guardedly, he said:
"I was back in the Wilderness. The last afternoon, when
I got hit." Michael still bore a scar on his
left hip. A Confederate ball buzzing
in over the barricades had slammed him out of
action-and out of the war.
"You dream of that every other night," Murphy sighed,
helping Michael pull his galluses over his
shirt. "That was two years ago, lad. Seems like
you'd be for-gettin' it by now." .
He recalled the fire; the smoke; the feeling of
forever combbing cut off from safety and sanity.
"If you'd been there, Sean, I doubt you'd forget
it." "But the war's over. I keep remindin' you of
that." Michael knotted a red bandana around his neck
and finally managed a smile. He was a tall
Irishman of thirty-six with fair hair already showing
gray, a horizontal white scar across his forehead,
and steady golden-brown eyes close to the color of the
handle-bar moustache he'd grown since coming west. Like
his hair; the moustache was gray streaked.
There was no flab left on him, either. He was spare
and hard after eleven weeks as a rust-eater on what
he and the other Paddies referred to as the U-Pay.
"Out of the way, I'm hungry," a man named
Flannan complained, giving Michael a shove.
Michael stiffened. Double-chinned Sean Murphy
laid a hand on his arm:
"Easy-easy! You're edgy as the devil
this morning."
Michael let himself be restrained and took no
offense. Murphy had become a good friend. Murphy
was the man who'd persuaded him to leave the Chicago
saloon where he'd been sweeping floors and tending
bar. Together they'd ridden the cars west to the end of the
existing rail lines, then traveled on to Omaha.
And Murphy's remark was embarrassingly
accurate.
Of late, Michael had found Louis Kent's
wife slipping into his dreams with increasing
frequency. No matter how far a man fled,
apparently certain things could never be outrun.
He'd tried running once before, when he'd finally
admitted how he felt about the spoiled and lovely
spouse of Amanda Kent's only son. In a
rage, he'd taken her at the family's country
seat up the Hudson River from New York. The
way he'd taken her amounted to rape. Almost immediately
he'd realized it was more an act of lust than anger;
he'd wanted her secretly for a long time. He'd
enlisted in the 69th New York to escape the
cause of his feelings, but found he couldn't.
After the Wilderness, the desire to flee had still been
with him. But it was complemented by another
drive, just as strong. He was sick at heart after
seeing so much death. Weary of watching life and
property being destroyed. He'd wanted an
antidote; a feeling of accomplishing something;
building something. So Julia had been one reason but
not the only reason he'd left the Washington
hospital as soon as he could, accepted his discharge,
and headed for new country.
He'd spent a season in Ohio, planting and
harvesting corn while Lee gave up to Grant at
Appomattox, the bloodletting ended, and the
Northern punishment of the beaten enemy commenced.
Late in '65 he'd moved on to Chicago and
held unsatisfying menial jobs in a packing
house, a tannery, the saloon. During those
months, the nation watched in astonishment as Andrew
Johnson com8His Accidency, the
President"-swung away from his pronouncements about
hanging Southerners and began carrying out the
conciliatory Reconstruction policies foreshadowed
in Lincoln's 1864 inaugural.
In Ohio and Illinois, too, the memory of
Julia stayed with him.
be
Then crusty widower, Sean Murphy,
approached him in the Chicago saloon, and they
became drinking
companions and eventually friends. Michael listened with
interest when Murphy spoke of leaving his
poor-paying drayman's job for higher wages and
cleaner work in the open air beyond the Missouri. There,
the long-delayed transcontinental railroad was
going forward at last. Michael decided to pack his
few belongings and join Murphy and a number of other
Paddies heading for the prairie.
The men went west in a spirit of hope, enthusiasm and
pride, declaring that the Irish had built the Erie
canal, a marvel in its day, and by God they'd
build the century's newest and greatest marvel
too-
"No denials, Michael?"
He forced himself from his reverie. "What's that?"
"I remarked-several hours ago, it seems-that you
woke up nervous as an Orangeman in County
Cork. Again."
Michael smiled. "Why, Sean, you should know
moodiness is typical of an Irish fellow.
Especially when he's throwing down a mile of rail
a day, and working for a bastard to boot."
Murphy looked unconvinced. He headed
up the aisle between the tiered bunks in the
eight-foot-high car. He and Michael were now the
laggards. Most of the other laborers had piled out the
door at the end, where a rack of repeating Spencer
rifles gleamed under the hanging lantern.
"I agree it ain't quite the soft duty I thought it'd
be," Murphy said. "But thirty-five greenback
dollars a month is a sight better than what I
was earnin' haulin' kegs up and down Lake
Street. Wait a damned minute, will you? Got
to lace up my blasted boot again."
Murphy knelt. Michael scratched his groin and
gazed at the rifles in the racks. Would they be
needed against the Sioux or Cheyenne?
So far there'd been only four raids, each one
over before Michael even heard about it. The pattern
was
always the same. He and the other men would be wakened
late in the night by yells and the bang of Spencers.
They'd tumble outside, rifles in hand, only
to find the drovers who guarded the railroad's
cattle firing futile shots into the darkness from which some
Indians had come slipping silently to run off
half a dozen head.
After the first theft, Michael and Sean
Murphy had learned that information about the Plains
tribes given them gratuitously in an Omaha
saloon was false. They'd been told the hostiles
never struck after the sun went down, fearing that if they
were slain at night, their spirits couldn't find the way
to the Indian equivalent of heaven. A drover
guarding the herd explained the real reason Plains
braves generally avoided nocturnal attacks: the
gut strings on war bows grew damp and lost their
tautness in the night air. Night thievery of
cattle was commonplace, however, since it seldom
required the discharge of even a single arrow. There'd
been no casualties to the railroad men on any
of the raids thus far.
But couriers galloping in from further west, where the
grade was being prepared, had recently brought
disturbing news about the Indians:
Early in the spring, peace commissioners had been
dispatched by the Federal Government to attempt
to arrange a treaty with the Sioux and Cheyenne. The
tribes stood in the way of miners heading north
toward the Big Horn Mountains-the Powder River
country- where there'd been a gold strike.
The dispatch of the commission sprang from a shift in
Congressional policy. Washington now
thought it easier to buy peace on the High Plains
than to fight for it. According to what Michael had heard,
important chiefs of the Oglala and Brule
Sioux had journeyed to Fort Laramie to listen to the
offer of one Mr. Taylor of the Indian Office:
The tribes would be given an annuity of
seventy-five thousand dollars a year, plus
firearms for hunting, if
they'd guarantee the safety of whites traveling the
Bozeari Trail to the new diggings. The
negotiations had proceeded smoothly at first. Then
they were abruptly ruined by the arrival of a Brule
chief, Standing Elk, who had encountered a column of
white soldiers commanded by a Colonel Carrington.
The soldiers were on their way to the Powder River
country to build stockades.
Red Cloud, the most influential of the Sioux at the
Fort Laramie parley, listened to the report of the
army column with shock and anger. Offers of peace were
being made even as soldiers tramped northwest
to seize the disputed territory! Red Cloud and a
great many other braves stormed out of the fort, promising
war as repayment for the deception. So even though the
U-Pay had experienced no serious trouble as
yet, every man at the railhead knew
circumstances were ripe for it.
"Broke the damn thing!" Murphy exploded. Part
of a thong dangled from his hand. He stood up and stuffed
the thong in his pocket. Michael turned away from the
rifles and the gloomy thoughts they generated. Murphy
returned to the subject of a few moments ago:
"I wanted to speak to you about the boss. I agree
it's a damn shame we drew him as head of our
gang-was
"I can't figure out how a Reb got such a good
job, Sean."
"Corkle told me the fellow ran railroad
construction crews in the South, before the war."
"I heard that too. But he's still a Reb, afraid
this is mostly a Union outfit."
"All I can guess is, the Casements believe the
only war they should fret about is a war with the calendar.
They put experienced men where they can get the best
use from "em."
"Suppose so," Michael nodded. "All that's
past is forgiven-or so you're always saying," he added
with a wry smile.
Escape to the West
"Well, we both understand I've been known
to prevaricate on occasion," Murphy
grinned. He remained in the door, intentionally
blocking Michael's passage. "There ain't a
hotter Southron at the railhead than the wretch
we're workin' for-nor one who likes more to keep
fightin' the late, unlamented war. Friend to friend,
Michael, you're a mite too willing to butt
heads with him on that subject-not to mention others."
"I have a reason. No, make it three."
"Such as?"
"He's a bully. He's a loudmouth. And he's
a about the war. He won't admit fighting for the
principle of states' rights was so much blarney. He
and his kind may have fought well, but they were fighting for
an immoral cause."
Here Murphy looked dubious; Michael's
remark didn't reflect the conventional thinking of
most Irishmen, who viewed blacks as an
economic threat.
"Nigger slavery, y'mean?"
Another nod. "I also get sick of him claiming
it's only the Northern factories that beat the
South. He's partly right, but I'll tell you this.
At the Round Tops, I saw no factories
perishing, I saw Irishmen and Dutchmen. In the
Wilderness I didn't see factories
perishing, just Yankee boys."
"Well, have a care, Michael. He's no sort
to fool with-and I've been wanting to remind you of it."
"I don't need reminders. I work with him every day.
Thanks for your good thoughts, however. I'll behave.
I'm through with fighting. I'm here to work."
" 'An" they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
an' their spears into pruning hooks-was was Murphy
recited the passage with a merry smile. was "Neither
shall they learn war any more"?"
"That's the general idea," Michael replied
soberly.
"Book of Micah," the older man announced
proudly. "Fourth chapter, third verse. See?
I ain't the godless
lout you boys are always accusin' me of being'."
"But it's from the second chapter, fourth verse, of
Isaiah as well as from Micah."
"What? It is?"
"Yes. And you left out the part about nation not lifting
up sword against nation."
Murphy blinked. "My stars, I never took you
for a Bible student!"
"It's the only book my mother owned when I was a
boy in the slums. She died when I was
seven, but she'd already taught me to read a few
passages, and persuaded me to study it to learn
moral behavior. When she passed away, and I
went on the streets and worked on the docks, I
kept a Bible with me. For every moral lesson I
took out of the pages, I saw two of the opposite
kind happening in New York. But it was my
principal teacher of decent English."
"And you're way ahead of me on the subject of the
boss. Relieved to hear it." Murphy winked.
"Certainly 'twasn't him you were thinkin" of last
night. Along with the war, you had a gal on your mind,
didn't you?"
Curtly: "No."
"Why, you did! You kept yellin' her name in your
sleep."
Michael's face went blank. "You must have heard
wrong."
"I'm positive I did not. Who is she, lad?
Some Chicago colleen you never mentioned to me? Or
one of them farm lasses you met down in Ohio?"
"Sean," Michael said, his smile affable but not his
eyes, "we may be friends, good friends. But certain
things are none of your affair. Quit swinging your
clapper and let's go eat."
The younger man's expression had grown so grim,
Murphy acquiesced without a murmur.
The Railhead
THUS, AT DAWN on a Saturday morning
near the end of August, 1866, Michael Boyle
and Sean Murphy climbed down from one of the four
cars standing with a locomotive coupled at the rear.
Steam was already up on the 4-4-0 Danforth and
Cooke wood burner named Osceola. The
engine's cowcatcher pointed east along the single
track.
Osceola and a quartet of double-sized boxcars
comprised the railhead work train-the "perpetual
train" as it was called by the Paddies who were pushing the
line westward in an effort to silence doubters, lure
more investors, and turn the foundering U-Pay into a
success.
Dr. Thomas Durant, the vice president and
general manager of the Union Pacific, had in
fact made a public commitment to finish two
hundred and forty-seven miles of roadbed across the
Nebraska Territory as soon as possible.
Milepost 247 would be erected on the hundredth
meridian. Until the meridian was reached, the
line's charter to build and operate the
eastern portion of the transcontinental railroad
would not become official. So a growing number of
ex-soldiers and day laborers from the cities were
driving toward the meridian at a pace even the
hardiest newcomers had trouble keeping up with at
first. Michael well recalled the agony he'd
suffered during his first two weeks at the railhead.
Every
night, he'd dragged himself up to his bunk, his
whole body in pain.
Already there was noise and movement around the perpetual
train. The sun had barely risen. But the light was
bright enough to reveal a barren yet strangely beautiful
ocean of grass, gently rolling, and treeless for as
far as a man could see. The light burnished the
greenish-gray buffalo grass and here and there
illuminated radiant patches of purple
pasqueflower, crimson wild geranium, and
yellow prairie smoke.
West of the four huge freight cars lay the grade,
prepared by gangs following the location stakes as far
as a hundred miles in advance of the moving
railhead. To the rear stretched the shimmering parallel
rails, running a good two hundred miles to the
Missouri River. Back past Fort
Kearney at milepost 191-the last real outpost
of civilization, if a ramshackle infantry
stockade and a collection of shanties could be called
civilization. Back past the division point at
Grand Island. Back past Fremont, only forty
miles out of Omaha-or Bilksville as it was
called by those who still considered the railroad a
foolish venture destined to fail.
Fremont was as far as the rails had gotten
by January of '66, even though Dr. Durant and
other officials of the line had broken ground at
Omaha almost a year earlier. There'd been poor
progress until two men, the Casement brothers,
had submitted a bid as subcontractors for
track laying. Now the line was advancing at the
rate of two rails every minute, four hundred
rails every mile-and a mile of new track between
sunup and sunset, six days a week. Michael
found the speed astonishing-just as he found the sights of the
prairie fresh and astonishing almost every morning. Today
was no exception.
He stretched, beginning to throw off the lethargy of
sleep and the memory of the nightmare. He drew in
deep breaths of the cool, sweet air tanged with the
smell
of burning wood and the reek of valve oil from the
funnel-stack locomotive. Men were hurrying from the
two bunk cars to the dining car, second from the head
end. The first car served as a combination office and
kitchen.
A few late risers were rolling out of hammocks
slung beneath the car where Michael and Murphy
slept. Others were climbing down from tents erected
on top. General Jack Casement's army of
rust-eaters was growing week by week. Over four
hundred men worked at the railhead now.
Smoke drifted across the paling stars,
breeze-borne from vents in the roof of the kitchen.
Michael thought he smelled fresh bread. He
certainly smelled cow dung. To his left, five
hundred head were rousing and milling, prodded by the
drovers. The herd comprised the railhead's
traveling meat supply; the four Indian raids
had not cut into it substantially.
The lowing cows raised dust. But the Platte
River, shallow, twisting and beginning to glow with
sunlight, was still visible through the cloud. On the far
side of the river characterized as "a mile wide and an
inch deep," Michael could discern the ruts of the
Overland Trail leading on to Fort
Laramie and Oregon. Sometimes the road was noisy
with freight wagons, or a stagecoach, or parties
of buffalo hunters. This morning it was deserted.
But it had seen traffic during the night. He
smiled at the sight of a couple of the
transcontinental telegraph poles planted beside
the trail. The poles had been pushed until they
tilted to a forty-five-degree angle. Buffalo
had passed, pausing to scratch off some of their shedding
hump manes.
Michael and Sean Murphy trudged on toward the
nearest line of men waiting their turn in the dining car.
A similar line had formed at the car's other end.
The morning bell rang at five thirty. In
less than an hour, the first of the iron trains
carrying a carefully calculated
quantity of rails and ties, spikes and chairs
would come chugging in from the supply base at Kearney.
Then the work day-twelve hours or. more-would begin.
The activity and numbers of men around the work train
hardly suggested the difficulties the
transcontinental line had encountered since the
passage of the Pacific Railroad Acts.
Michael knew a great deal about the Union
Pacific's history. The supply
trains brought newspapers as well as mail, and
he'd become an avid student of the project.
The concept of a rail link between the oceans had been
under discussion for years. Proposed routes had been
debated in Congress and at the cabinet level for a
decade. In the fifties, while he was Franklin
Pierce's Secretary of War, Jefferson
Davis had obtained surveys of several possible
routes. But the start of the four year rebellion had
interrupted the decision process, even though
Lincoln by then had enough data on which to act.
In California a young engineer named Theodore
Judah had located and mapped a feasible route through
the Sierras. Other surveys, including those by the
Union Pacific's new chief engineer, former
U.s. Army General Grenville Dodge, had
shown that the most practical route from the Missouri
began at Omaha and ran toward the point where the
"Overland Trail joined the Platte.
Finally Lincoln had moved. He saw the
railroad as a means of symbolically unifying the
Atlantic and Pacific states and of solidifying
the Union's hold on all the land between. Congress
and the President had put the first Pacific
Railroad Act into law in July of
1862, chartering two corporations: the Union
Pacific, which was to build the line from the Missouri
River, and the Central Pacific, which would begin
eastbound construction at Sacramento.
The terms of the Railroad Act seemed ideal for
attracting risk capital. The government had
granted both corporations ten miles of land in
alternating sections on either side of a
four-hundred-foot right of way; ten miles in
return for every mile of track laid. Resale of
this land to settlers, it was presumed, would help finance
the project. In addition, the Act had authorized
Federal subsidies in the form of thirty-year
bonds. The amount of the subsidy per mile of
completed track depended on the terrain. On the
plains, the rate was sixteen thousand dollars a
mile. It jumped to forty-eight thousand a mile in the
Rocky Mountains and the Sierras.
Control of the Central Pacific was in the hands of a
group called The Big Four. The first of the quartet
was California's governor, Leland Stanford. His
partners were three merchants from the Sacramento
Valley-a grocer and vegetarian named Mark
Hopkins, and a pair of hardware merchants,
Collis Huntington and Charles
Crocker. Their eastern counterparts were a group of
businessmen led by Dr. Durant, a canny man
who'd abandoned medicine for a career as a railway
promoter.
Despite the government's generosity, the sale of
each corporation's stocks and bonds had lagged because
of the financial community's disinterest. No shrewd
investor wanted to dump money into a railroad across
a wilderness when so much more could be made supplying war
material to the Federal Government. So a second
Railroad Act had become necessary in "64.
Among its other provisions, it doubled the land
granted per mile; the two companies would eventually
control over twenty-one million acres.
But even this failed to attract capital.
By mid-1864, the Central Pacific had laid
exactly thirty-one miles of track. The
Union Pacific's rails didn't extend beyond
the Omaha city limits.
Once more Lincoln had stepped in, this time
primarily on behalf of the Union Pacific.
He'd sought the services of "the King of
Spades"-Massachusetts
Congressman Oakes Ames, who'd made a
fortune from the manufacture and sale of
Ames Old Colony Mining Shovels. Lincoln
wanted Ames to put not only his money but his
personal prestige behind the line. Oakes Ames and
his brother Oliver poured in a million of their own
funds, and attracted another million and a
half-but it was still not enough. War profiteering and
skepticism continued to deter investors.
Michael had read a good deal about the directors of
both railroads. He'd also heard his share of
gossip. Durant's crowd and The Big Four
might be greedy, but they were neither lazy nor stupid.
They wanted the line built not only because it might
yield unprecedented profits, but also for the sheer
thrill of accomplishing an engineering feat of incredible
magnitude.
There was mounting evidence, however, that the directors
of the lines were beginning to indulge in freebooting on a
grand scale. Big Four director Huntington,
for example, had scored a major coup with the
subsidies. It had been President Lincoln's
responsibility to fix the place at which the
sixteen-thousand-dollar Sacramento Valley
subsidy was replaced by the forty-eight-thousand-dollar
one for construction in the Sierra foothills.
Huntington had enlisted a friendly
geologist who reported that the Sierras actually
"began" at Arcade Creek, twenty-four miles
west of the point designated in Theodore Judah's
original survey. At Arcade, reddish mountain
soil could be found mingled with the blacker dirt of the
Valley. The fact that the soil had washed down there
was glossed over.
Armed with the "dramatic new findings," Huntington
had launched a campaign in Washington.
Prompted by a cooperative congressman,
Lincoln restudied his maps and accepted the
Central Pacific claim-thus giving the line an
additional two dozen miles at the considerably
higher rate. "Pertinacity and Abraham's
faith," ran a wry report of the maneuvering,
"removed mountains."'*
Dr. Durant recognized a major problem
confronting the-Union Pacific. A record of
accomplishment was needed to attract capital and
reverse unfavorable public opinion.
Accomplishment! Track laid! The line wouldn't
even be in business permanently unless the hundredth
meridian was reached.
But slogans and rallying cries weren't enough to overcome
the obstacles facing the U. P.:
First, every bit of equipment, food, water, and
rolling stock had to be brought to Omaha by freight
wagon or by steam packet from St. Joseph or
St. Louis. The two nearest railroads east of the
Missouri, the Rock Island and the Cedar Rapids
and Missouri, both stopped a good hundred and
fifty miles short of the river-as Michael had
discovered when he'd journeyed west from Chicago.
He, Murphy, and the other Paddies had completed the
last stage of their trip by coach and on foot.
No bridge existed between Council Bluffs and
Omaha. Anything arriving by wagon had to be ferried
around the Missouri's dangerous sand bars. The
line's very first Danforth and Cooke locomotive, the
Major General Sherman, had been shipped in
sections on a river boat and laboriously
reassembled at its destination.
The Central Pacific had been luckier on a
couple of important counts. The forested slopes
of the Sierras provided all the hardwood the line
needed to fuel its engines-and for ties. The
Nebraska plains, by contrast, had no trees
except the porous and unsatisfactory
cottonwood.
The C. P. also faced no immediate threats of
Indian trouble along its first miles of roadbed.
But the line had to traverse mountains-blasting and
tunneling through, or creating torturous switchback
cuts that wound around the peaks. Charles Crocker, the
line's construction boss, had found a solution to the
unwillingness of some men to risk themselves in such
hazardous work. Crocker had
begun to hire Chinese. The so-called Celestials
proved to be first-class powder monkeys, expert
at working with the explosives used to blast a path through
solid granite.
Michael had read that not a few of the white men working
on the Central Pacific hated the Chinese. But
Crocker was delighted with them. They worked
diligently, and had one appealing moral virtue
their white brethren lacked: they drank nothing
stronger than tea. Crocker's inspiration had been
lauded in a toast that amused Michael: "To the
Pacific Railroad-the only piece of
crockery ware made out of China."
In spite of minor successes, such as Crocker's
discovery of a work force that could plow through the Sierras
without fear and without delay, Michael knew
skepticism about the concept of a transcontinental
line remained widespread. Even four
short years before, the Union hero of the Georgia and
Carolina march-the very man for whom the Union
Pacific's Engine Number 1 had been named-had
greeted the first Railroad Act with the comment that he
wouldn't care to spend money on a coast-to-coast
ticket to be used by his grandchildren.
Both railroads were drawing their share of press
criticism, though for some reason roving
correspondents treated the Central Pacific
less harshly than they did the eastern line.
Headquarters was reportedly still grumbling about
articles by the editor of the influential
Springfield, Massachusetts, Republican.
He'd written that the job of laying track across the
relatively level plains was "baby work." He
and other Eastern pundits couldn't fathom why the
Union Pacific was progressing so
slowly-unless, as many said, it had been destined
to fail from the beginning.
But now 1866 looked to be a watershed, thanks to the
arrival of the Casement brothers, John S. and
Daniel T.
Jack Casement had been brevetted to brigadier
in the
Union army. He was almost constantly at
the railhead. Daniel remained in Omaha,
calculating how many five-hundred-pound rails or
chemically treated cottonwood ties were needed each
day, or journeying out to the supply bases at
Fremont and Kearney to coordinate the schedules
of the iron trains.
To be accurate, the Casements didn't work
directly for the Union Pacific. Nor did
Michael or Murphy andst or any of the other
rust-eaters. The actual work of building the road
was contracted by a company called the Credit
Mobilier. In French the name meant movable loan.
The Credit Mobilier sold its services
directly to the U.p. Some said its prices were
never questioned.
That rumor tended to validate another Michael had
heard about Dr. Durant and some of his fellow U.
P. directors. It was said they also served
secretly as directors of the subcontracting
firm. If that were true, Michael saw no reason
why a mile of track couldn't be billed at twice
or triple its actual cost. One pocket, in
effect, would pay another. In a cynical way he
almost admired the suspected scheme. It would make
thievery on a stupendous scale not only
possible but easy.
In fact he'd reflected that such an arrangement
might one day attract the interest, and money, of
Mr. Louis Kent. Louis was at home among men
willing to take not altogether legal risks for immense
gain. One such venture coma trading company formed to do
business secretly with the South during the early days
of the war-had been exposed by Michael, Jephtha
Kent, and the Boston banker, Joshua Rothman.
Jephtha had published a series of newspaper
articles oh Louis" company, Federal
Suppliers. In those days Jephtha had been
Washington correspondent for the Kent paper, The
New York Union. But Jephtha had rashly
warned Louis about the series prior to publication,
hoping the matter could be settled quietly.
Michael had told Jephtha that Louis would never
dismantle a
profitable business solely because of a threat, and he'd
been right. Jephtha had been discharged from the Union,
and Rothman had been forced to arrange for the articles
to appear in Greeley's Tribune.
Michael's role had been that of a corroborative
witness. Along with Rothman, he'd been present
when Louis made his original proposal
about setting up the company. Thus he was able to verify
Rothman's statements in Jephha's copy.
The company had vanished almost as quickly as it had
arrived. Louis had suffered severe public
embarrassment, though no actual prosecution had
been launched by the government since the company was not in
existence long enough to engage in a provably illegal
act. If there had been a desire in Washington
to prefer charges against Louis, Michael had never
heard of it. After disconnecting himself from the Kent's
long-time law firm, Benbow and Benbow-like the
Rothman Bank, too scrupulous an institution
for his taste-Louis had hired other lawyers.
Michael suspected he'd sent one or two of them
hustling to the capitol to distribute cash and make
sure any contemplated government action was quashed.
Louis had also avoided substantial monetary
loss simply because he'd planned to set up
Federal Suppliers with funds that were not actually
his. He meant to use the California gold money
Amanda Kent had pyramided and left to Jephtha,
her cousin Jared's son. That money would one day
pass to Jephtha's three boys.
Rothman had balked at the proposal. He was
chief steward of Amanda's California
holdings, and refused to permit Louis
to manipulate the accrued profits. Out of the conflict
came Rothman's conviction that for the sake of the
family's honor, Louis must be stopped-no
matter where he finally secured his capital. He
had been stopped.
Even though Louis had experienced no depletion of
his personal fortune, the scandal was enough to earn
Michael, Jephtha, and the banker the undying enmity
of the young financier. That was another reason Michael
had been glad to leave the East. He wasn't so
much afraid of Louis as sick of him and all he
represented. Rather, all he failed to represent after
the Kent family had built its fortune and
reputation through a combination of idealism and honest,
unashamed enterprise.
Michael seldom thought about Louis any more-or any
of the eastern Kents, for that matter.
Except Julia.
A vivid image of her face troubled him again as the
line edged forward to the dining car. The image vanished
when he became aware of someone watching him from a
similar line at the car's far end.
It was the crew boss he and Murphy had discussed
earlier. The Virginian, Captain
Leonidas Worthing.
Worthing wore a straw hat and faded gray duster.
A stump of cigar jutted from his teeth. He
claimed to have served with Mosby's Partisan
Rangers. There were a great many veterans in Jack
Casement's little army, but few Confederates. And those
few were generally rust-eaters like Michael himself.
Worthing was the exception.
The light spreading over the Prairie lit
Worthing"s unfriendly face as men began to leave the
dining car, their turn at the tables over. Worthing
tossed away hiss cigar and elbowed his way to the
head of the line. A workman objected. Worthing said
a few words that made the worker flush and back away.
The Southerner turned his back oh the man he'd
intimidated. He stared at Michael again, tapping
a leather riding crop against his faded trouser leg.
Lord, how Michael detested that swaggering oaf!
Twice he'd protested when Worthing badgered some
member of Michael's gang, which was only one of
several gangs the Virginian supervised. One
argument had nearly reached the point of violence. Then
General Jack Casement had stepped in.
Casement stressed cooperation. The work was arduous enough
without personal feuds being added to the
burden. But Leonidas Worthing didn't share
Casement's philosophy.
Half a dozen Paddies came clattering down the
steps. The car was emptying quickly. As Michael and
Murphy moved forward again, they saw one of their
crew walking toward them from the head end. Evidently
he'd already eaten; he was picking at his upper gum
with the point of a Bowie knife.
"Hallo, Christian," Murphy called, waving.
"Morning, lads." The young man nodded, wiping his
knife on the sleeve of his old wool shirt.
Christian was lean and dark, with high cheekbones and
straight black hair that reminded Michael of
Jephha. Christian admitted to being a Delaware
Indian and hailing from Ohio, but that was all anyone
knew about him. Startling blue eyes suggested at
least one white parent or grandparent. Whether he'd
been given his name as a symbol of a hoped-for
religious conversion, or merely because it had a pleasing
sound, was a mystery. But he was soft-spoken,
well-mannered and mule-strong. He amused
Michael because he liked to sprinkle his conversation with
words and phrases picked up from the Paddies.
"How's the beef?" Murphy asked-him.
"Tougher than usual. Beans about the
same. Potatoes overcooked. Boiled to mush,
practically."
"Ah, that's plenty good enough for you, Chief," another
man in line laughed. Christian took it in good
humor:
"Don't sauce me, spud-grubber, or I'll
utter my celebrated bloodcurdling whoop and
summon the tribe to relieve you of your none too
attractive hair." Less cheer
fully, he leaned close to Michael. "I had the
misfortune to rah into himself as I was coming out."
"The captain?"
Christian nodded. "Keep clear. He's in a
nasty mood."
Murphy sighed. "When is he not?"
"Nastier than usual, I mean. See you
presently, lads." The Indian drifted away.
Murphy shook his head. "He talks prettier
English than men born to it. Bet his old man was
a missionary who went wild in one of them Ohio
villages where the savages beat the drams an'
dance nekkid all night."
"Sean, don't ever visit Ohio."
"I passed through Cleveland on my way
to Chicago. Never seen the natives,
though."
"The natives, as you call them, would sorely
disappoint you. They don't beat drams, nor do their
dusky daughters dance under the moon. In fact they
don't have dusky daughters. They're just a lot of
proper second-generation farmers and mechanics who
hop after the coin six days a week and pray on
Sunday."
"Just good Americans, huh?" Murphy said,
grinning. Then he yelled at some Paddies who'd
stopped to chat in the car entrance: "Will you kindly get
your fannies down here so those of us still waitin' can have
a chance at the elegant fare?"
"Oh, don't be in no hurry, Sean Murphy,"
one of the group called back. "You've no
surprises waiting."
There were seldom surprises at mealtime. Though
wholesome enough, the morning, noon, and evening menus were
the same seven days a week, except when an
occasional band of independent buffalo hunters rode
in to sell a fresh kill. But the Union
Pacific bread was always newly baked and warm, the
coffee strong-and at the moment Michael was ravenous,
perhaps because of the crispness of the air. It smelled of
autumn.
He wondered if they really would reach the meridian
before the first heavy snow. If not, the line would
probably go under. Winter on the plains was
reported to be brutal; he already knew construction
would be halted during the worst months.
Finally the car entrance cleared, and the line moved
faster. Michael followed his friend inside. A long
table ran from end to end, with benches on either side. A
little sunlight leaked through grimy windows, but hanging
lamps were still needed.
Two Paddies on the far side finished their meals.
To leave, they climbed on the bench and walked across the
table, incurring the wrath of a cook's helper bringing
in a fresh platter of beef and a wooden bucket of
steaming coffee.
Other helpers with long-handled rag swabs darted in
and out among the men who were scrambling to find places.
Each tin plate was nailed down, only the coffee
cups standing free. The helpers used the swabs
to wipe each plate quickly.
Michael and his companion wedged in among the workers
spreading out along the benches. Experience had taught
Michael not to hesitate. He planted himself in
front of a plate, grabbed a fork, and stabbed a
slab of beef. Another fork from the other
side narrowly missed his wrist.
He jerked the beef to his plate, then shoved his
cup through a thicket of hands around the coffee
bucket. He managed to dip out a full cup without
spilling any. He lifted a leg over to the bench,
ready to sit down, and felt a tap on his shoulder.
Across the table, three men grabbing handfuls of
potatoes quieted suddenly. Sean Murphy,
already seated, glanced behind Michael, then directly
at him, with a look of warning. Michael's scalp
prickled.
With deliberate slowness, Michael laid his fork beside
his heaped plate. Then he put the coffee cup
down. He
The Railhead
turned to find Captain Leonidas Worthing pushing
up the brim of his straw hat with his riding crop.
"Boyle, you've taken my spot. Move somewhere
else."
It wasn't a request. It was a demand.
The Captain
"BOYLE, I"m WAITING."
Leonidas Worthing said it with an insincere smile
that revealed brown teeth. At the right corner of his
mouth, a sore glistened. A little souvenir
from one of the soiled doves of Omaha, perhaps?
Michael held his temper. "I see no place
cards, Captain." his
"True, but I decided to sit here so I can speak
to Murphy about speeding up the work of your gang. Of
all the ones I'm in charge of, it's by far the worst.
Too many weak sisters." He left no doubt that
he included Michael. "Fellows who'd rather
bellyache than earn a day's wages honestly."
Michael knew what the Virginian meant
by bellyaching: remarks he'd made over a pipe
after working hours. They'd evidently reached the
captain through someone who toadied to him. But the
remarks were truthful.
Still getting no response, Worthing grew
impatient:
"If you intend to dispute my right to this seat, Boyle,
kindly tell me."
On the other side of the table, one man nudged
another expectantly. Michael refused to be
forced into a quarrel:
"Captain," he said quietly, "why is it you're
always hunting excuses to fight?"'
Worthing surprised him with a laugh.
"Because I believe in doing a good job."
"And because you're not partial to Yanks?" "If you
expect me to be partial to your kind, you're a
fool. I rode with Colonel Mosby, you know."
"Aye, so we've heard," Murphy sighed. "A
score of times."
"But I never told you the circumstances of my
capture, did I? I had the misfortune to lose
my mount and get caught by some of General Custer's
glory hunters. You know what those kindly fellows
did before they loaded me on a prisoner train?
They gave me a dose of Their favorite
punishment. Tied me to a wagon wheel. Arms over
my head-was The crop shot up as he pantomimed
it. "Legs stretched out. Then they gave the wheel a
quarter turn. They left me hanging with the hub
goddamn near breaking my spine. For fourteen
hours! When I woke up on the train, I found
I'd pissed and shitted myself like a baby."
"Jaysus, Captain," Murphy gulped. "I was
attemptin" to enjoy my breakfast."
The Virginian paid no attention. "One of my
fellow prisoners on the train said that when I was
put aboard, I had spit-foam-all over my
chin. I couldn't remember my own name for the best part
of a day. Handsome treatment for an officer,
wouldn't you say?"
Michael shrugged again. "I can't excuse it. But
I wasn't there. I'm not to blame."
"Oh, yes." Worthing jabbed the crop into his
chest. "You wore the blue.".
"You're going to harass every Union man in this outfit
just because you were treated badly?"
"Harass! Mighty fine word for a slum
Irishman." Another jab with the crop. "Mighty
fine!"
Michael's temper was heating. He seized the crop
and pushed it down. "Of course I forget one fact.
You
don't limit yourself to harassing men. Last week you
practically whipped that lorry-car boy to death with this
thing. And merely because he was a little clumsy handling the
horse. You surely didn't learn much from John
Mosby, Captain. You didn't learn men work
better when they're led, not driven. I suspect
you're too stupid to learn anything so simple."
Livid, Worthing swung the crop:
"You damned high-assed mick!"
Michael's right hand shot across to catch Worthing's
forearm. The dining car was completely silent.
There was a test of strength as Michael
struggled to hold Worthing's arm steady. His face
reddened. Veins rose thick on the back of his hand.
Worthing tried to wrench away. Michael held him.
But his anger had subsided a little; he thought it best
to bring the confrontation back into saner limits.
"Captain, if we keep this up-was A quick gasp for
breath. "comwe won't be ready to work at six
thirty. What do you say we both try to forget the
war's over?"
"Hell if I will!"
Michael's shoulder began to throb. He felt
tension in Worthing's arm. The man was* readying for
another attempt to pull free. Already Michael
had humiliated him, and he realized that he'd
probably have to fight. God knew what trouble
he'd land in with Casement for that.
Boots thudded on the steps at the west end of the car.
The door banged open.
"General Jack wants all the crew bosses.
Right away!"
Several diners grumbled and left their places.
Michael weighed the risk, accepted it, and released
Worthing's arm.
"That includes you, I believe.*"
He watched the crop, waiting for it to come
slashing at his cheek. Worthing's hand whitened.
Michael men-
: I
is
tally gauged how far back he could jump and still throw
a punch. The man at the door bellowed again.
"Worthing, shake a leg! The telegraph says the
iron train's forty minutes late out of
Kearney."
Eye to eye with Leonidas Worthing, Michael
waited. Finally the ex-Confederate ran the tip of his
tongue over his upper lip. The hand holding the crop
relaxed and regained its color. The other crew
bosses trooped out as the man who'd summoned them
stormed forward.
"Dammit, Worthing, Casement said now, not
Christmas!"
Worthing waved the crop. "Shut up. I'm coming."
He inclined his head toward Michael's. "Wasn't
good luck for you when they put you on one of my
gangs, boy."
. "Surprise me with something else, Captain. And
don't call me boy again or I'll knock you
down so you won't get up for a while. I answer
to the name of Boyle."
Worthing reddened. Michael could see grins on the
faces along the table. Sean Murphy's was
broadest of all.
"Ah, who gives a shit what your name is?" The
crop wigwagged; Worthing was trying to make light of
his humiliation. "A mick's a mick. Except
you-you're special. You've been headed for trouble
since the day you climbed off the cars."
"I could give you a few reasons why," There was
anger in Michael's eyes again; he'd had enough.
"But I'd be wasting my breath."
"Reasons-was Worthing nodded, licking the brown
stump of an upper tooth. "Lies you've been
spreading around free and easy among your pals. That
nigger. The half-breed I got stuck with-well, you
remember one thing. There's a good forty miles or more
until we hit the meridian. That's forty days. And
you'll be working for me every damn one of 'em. I
guarantee you
won't feel like celebrating when we put down
milepost two forty-seven."
He touched the crop to Michael's, jaw.
"Before we get there, boy, I'm going to break your
back."
ii
Worthing spun and stalked to the door, shoving two
workers out of his way. Michael barely heard the
compliments directed at him. He was experiencing one
of those shameful moments in which he wished he'd never
met Mrs. Amanda Kent de la Gura. A good
deal of her style-her refusal to be intimidated
by those she considered in the wrong-had rubbed off on him
while he'd worked for her.
But he'd joined Jack Casement's rust-eaters
to find peace, not endless quarreling.
He sank down on the bench beside Murphy, staring with
lusterless eyes at his plate of beef and cup of
cooling coffee.
He had always been teased about his appetite. His
belly seemed to have a limitless capacity--no
doubt because he'd gotten so little to eat as a child. He
never tired of cramming himself, and the enormous amounts
of food he ate never added so much as one extra
pound. But his earlier anticipation of breakfast was
altogether gone.
I'm going to break your back.
"Lord, Fergus, did you hear that feller from the
office?" a Paddy on the opposite side asked
his companion. "First iron train forty minutes
late. 'Spose it's Injuns?"'*
"Eat up!" Murphy urged Michael, who shook
his head.
The man named Fergus shrugged. "The further we go
beyond Kearney, the more likely it is. The Injuns
don't like this railway cuttin' into their buffla
grounds."
"But I thought General Dodge pacified the
savages before he signed on with the U-Pay."
M
"It don't take "em long to get pacified these
days, Fergus replied. "You heard what happened
at Fort Laramie. Out this far, the only Injuns
we got for friends are the one or two workin" on the
line, and a few hang-around-the-forts. The buckos with the
devil in "em- ones like that Red Cloud-they don't
pay any attention to what the tame Injuns say,
do-or sign. Touch the pen, I mean. They can't
write English so they just touch a pen to a treaty
an" some clerk fills in their names."
Fergus' companion looked puzzled. "I dunno
what you mean, hang-around-the-forts."
"That's because you ain't been out here long caret enough,"
Fergus announced in a smug tone. "Hang-arounds
are Injuns who pitch then* tipis near a post
to trade an' beg for handouts. Liquor.
Hot coffee with lots of sugar in it. Everybody
back East thinks the Injuns are crazy for the
alcohol, but a buffla hunter told me it's
coffee with sugar they fancy most. Why, for years
on the Holy Road-was
"What the devil is that?"
""You look at it every day! Holy Road's what
they call the old emigrant trail across the
river-just like this here's the Fire Road. The Injuns
used to make a game of stoppin" wagons and
askin' for sugared coffee as the price of lettin'
white folks pass through."
"I don't know why we're gabbling about the red
heathens," Sean Murphy put in, his words muffled
by a mouth stuffed with beans. His cuff served as a
napkin to catch the juice. "We've rails
to worry about. Train'll more likely be an hour
late, but we still have a mile to lay, regardless."
"We'll get it done," Michael said, more confident
than he felt.
"Mebbe," Fergus said. "But I have a funny
feeling
The
Warriors
it's to be one of those days that bust a man's
privates."
Or break his back?
Michael drank a little of the tepid coffee. Tried
to forget Worthing's threat. He forced a smile:
"Cheer up, Patrick Fergus. We do get paid
this evening, you know. Andwitha start such as we've just had,
the day can become no worse, only better."
But he was wrong.
"A March as Glorious as Sherman's"
SEAN MURPHY'S PREDICTION proved
accurate. The iron train pulled by the engine
Vice-Admiral Farragut arrived an hour
late. Not an auspicious beginning for a Saturday,
the one work day Casement's men eagerly
anticipated.
As soon as the day's work was over, gold or
greenbacks would be handed out from the office car, and a
man could spend the rest of the evening drinking, rat-fling
dice on a blanket, playing euchre-whatever he
fancied-with no fear that too little sleep or an aching
head would hamper him next morning. Sunday was for
sleeping, reading, writing letters, laundering and mending
clothes, or taking a lazy dip in the Platte.
This Saturday, the men knew the evening's fun would be
cut short. Late train or no, a
mile of track had to be laid. Michael and
Murphy drifted through the crowd watching the
Farragut chug in from the east. They saw sour
faces everywhere.
Michael also noted some longing glances directed
toward an attraction that had been with the moving
railhead, ever since it passed Grand Island, a
dusty little settlement populated mostly by German
families hoping to build a future out of small
farms or, as soon as the railroad lured more
settlers, business establishments.
The attraction was an ordinary wagon. Drawn
by two mules, it creaked along beside the advancing
rails six days a week and stopped where they stopped
each
night. This morning the mules had not yet been
hitched; were still tethered to the tailboard. What made
the wagon of interest were two large barrels lashed
to the side. A dipper on a chain hung from each.
One barrel bore the name DORN in crudely
painted white letters. The other said WHISKEY. There
were two more barrels tied to the wagon's far side, and
others stored under the patched canvas top. Beyond the
wagon Michael glimpsed the large partitioned duck
tent erected every evening.
He couldn't personally swear the interior of the tent was
partitioned. But certain venturesome rust-eaters declared
it was. On several occasions, these men-usually
tipsy-had tried without success to get a midnight
peek at a member of the family of the liquor
merchant who'd lit out from Grand Island in an
attempt to make money satisfying one of the vices
tolerated by the U-Pay management comthirst.
Gustav Dorn, the bearded Dutchman who owned the
rig and sold the whiskey, had a fondness for his own
product. Michael had occasionally bought a
half-dipper of forty rod from him. Dorn was always
unsteady on his feet. He spoke broken English
rendered nearly unintelligible by sips of his own
stock.
At the moment Dorn was nowhere to be seen. His son,
a plump blond boy of about fourteen, sat on the
wagon seat, guarding the liquor and the nearby tent with
an old but powerful Hawken percussion rifle.
Casement's orders prohibited any liquor being
sold until the day's quota of track had been
laid.
As Michael watched, the tent flap lifted. The
third member of the family appeared, carrying a
coffee pot to a cook fire of buffalo
chips. Why in God's name the German had brought his
daughter to the all-male railhead was beyond
Michael's comprehension. The only explanation
he'd heard had come from the boy, via Murphy.
According to Sean, Gustav Dorn believed his daughter
was safer traveling with him than she would
"A March as Glorious as Sherman's"317
have been if she'd remained behind, alone, in Grand
Island.
Dorn's daughter was seldom on display at the
railhead. She only came outdoors to prepare
meals for her father and brother. She spent the rest of
her time in the tent, or in the wagon when it was en
route between stops. Michael had also heard the girl
was a religious sort and read the Bible a good deal.
He studied her while she hung the pot over the
coals and poked them with a stick. As usual, she
wore a man's outfit: trousers; a too-large
woolen coat; a soft-brimmed old hat. Her
hair was pushed up under the hat. That and the shapeless
clothing virtually disguised her sex.
He'd never seen the girl up close. Some others
had; she'd voluntarily doctored a few minor
cuts or sprains, there being no physician in the
work force. Her patients reported she was
young and pretty, though not much given to friendliness. An
understandable defense, he figured. One smile of
encouragement and half the men in Jack Casement's
crew would have stormed her tent with their pants at
half-mast.
But the real deterrents to social intercourse-and
attempts at another kind-were the Hawkens the
family had brought along. On one occasion
Michael had glimpsed the girl carrying one of the
hunting rifles. He assumed she wouldn't have
fooled with it if she were a novice at using it.
Without having met the girl, Michael admired her
pluck. It took nerve to come to the railhead, even
with protection. But he suspected Dorn's
daughter couldn't be as pretty as described. Being
the only female for a hundred miles could elevate
plainness to stunning beauty in the eye of the lustful
beholder. An objective analysis would
probably reveal her to be a thin-lipped sort,
cold-blooded, and disapproving of human weakness.
No doubt she hoped to save her father's soul
from eternal damnation, since he was engaged in a
trade at odds with the precepts of the book she
supposedly read for hours on end.
She was out of sight now-back inside the
tent-and Michael's musings were cut short by a rising
noise level that signaled the start of work.
With billows of steam and the squeal of drivers, the
train of flatcars from Kearney pulled in behind
Osceola. Foremen started shouting. From the
disorganized crowd loitering on either side of the
track, five-man gangs coalesced with
surprising speed.
The gangs climbed aboard the flatcars and began
unloading the day's supplies, starting with
eight-foot ties of two kinds: stronger ones of
oak or cedar, and softer, less durable ones of
cottonwood impregnated with a zinc chloride
solution to toughen and preserve them; the process was
called burnetizing. Four treated ties would be
laid for every harder one.
Wrought-iron chairs were manhandled off and piled beside
the track, along with rails, fish plates for joining
the rail sections, and casks of spikes and bolts.
Then the Vice-Admiral Farragut began to back
down the track, followed by Osceola hauling the
four gigantic boxcars. Clanking and puffing
smoke, the two trains withdrew beyond the stacked
materials, leaving the western end of the track free.
Michael and Murphy started searching for the
other members of their five-man gang as two
lorry cars- lightweight four-wheeled carts-were
lifted onto the track and loaded with the required
number of ties, rails, chairs, fish plates,
spikes, and bolts. The pair of Irishmen soon
located a third-sour, sallow Liam O'Dey.
O'Dey was in his late twenties, but looked
twice that. Unable to find work in his native
Philadelphia, he'd left a wife and seven
children ages six to fourteen. Somehow he'd hoodwinked
his employers into thinking he was in good health. A
consumptive cough said otherwise.
?"was
A March as Glorious as Sherman's8319
He dragged a news clipping from his pocket and showed
it to Michael.
"Ye'll have a fine laugh out o' this. It's from one
of the papers at home. Me old lady sent it."
Michael scanned the type. Evidently the piece
was an editorial, one of the few favorable ones
he'd seen. O'Dey coughed, then pointed:
"See there? It says we're engaged in a
"second grand march to the sea!" his
Michael read the next lines:
Sherman, with his victorious legions
sweeping from Atlanta to Savannah, must have been a
spectacle no more glorious than this army of men
a-march from Omaha to Sacramento, subduing unknown
wildernesses, surmounting untried obstacles, and
binding across the broad breast of America the iron
emblem of modern progress and civilization. All
honor, not only to the brains that have conceived, but to the
indomitable wills, the brave hearts, and the brawny
muscles that are actually achieving the great work!
"My," Michael said, smiling. was "Indomitable
wills.* *Brave hearts." "A march as
glorious as Sherman's!" We've come into our own,
lads. We're heroes just like the general."
O'Dey coughed again; spat on the ground. "At
least we are to some pup of a scrivener who ain't been
out here to see the filthy hard work for himself."
Murphy put in, "No doubt the writer's
opinion will be sharply revised if we fail to reach
the meridian before the heavy snows."
O'Dey crumpled the clipping and thrust it back in
his pocket. "Bunch of twaddle," he said with his
usual petulance. "Having Worthing in command, I
feel more like one of the victims of Savannah than a
conquerida" general."
"Ssst!" Murphy gestured. "Here he
comes."
Worthing strode up to them, an angry glint in his
eye. He waved his crop at the trio.
"Out where you belong-and snappy! Where's the nigger and the
half-breed?"
A stoop-shouldered but powerful black man in his
twenties slipped up to the rear of the group and waved
the blue bandana he'd been using to swab his cheeks.
The sun promised intense heat before the day was done.
"Right here's one, Captain," the black man said,
winking at Michael to show that his toothy, truckling
grin wasn't meant to be taken seriously.
"Find that scummy Indian. Get a move on!"
Worthing pivoted away, heading for another of the
gangs he supervised.
"Morn*in, all," the black said as the four men
began to trot toward the last pair of rails spiked
down the preceding night.
"Morning, Greenup," Michael said. Greenup
Williams was a freedman from Kentucky; one of
about a dozen blacks in the work force.
"Captain sure does look thunderous today,"
Greenup observed.
"He and Mr. Boyle exchanged a few
intemperate words in the d*" saloon,"
Murphy informed him.
"That so? Well, let's hope everybody stays
peaceable the rest of the day. I got a hankering
to visit the whiskey wagon quick as I can."
O'Dey managed to sound gloomy even though gasping
for breath:
"Captain Worthing will-no doubt have us- whistled out and
too-weak to raise a dipper by the time we see
sunset." He came to a halt as the others
trotted on, cupped his hand over his mouth, and bent
forward, coughing hard.
The three reached the last pair of rails. O'Dey
straggled along a moment later. Down the line,
Christian appeared, rushing to join them.
"A March as Glorious as Sherman's"
"Hey, Chief, you late," Greenup grinned as the
new arrival dragged his galluses up over his
shoulders.
Christian feigned annoyance: "Doesn't the
Union Pacific permit a man to perform his
natural functions in the morning?"
Michael spied Worthing striding along behind the
Indian. He tried to warn Christian with a glance but
failed.
Half a mile back, a cart boy led a
work horse to the first lorry car. The boy was a
towhead named Tom Ruffin. He'd run away from
an Indiana orphanage to join the great
enterprise. The boy tied the horse to the cart, then
climbed on the animal's back.
Christian stretched a suspender and rolled his
tongue in his cheek.
"No, on reflection I guess it doesn't. The
only function that interests himself is the breaking of a
man's spine. Or spirit."
"Christian-to " Michael began. By then Worthing
had reached the Delaware. He jabbed the nape of
Christian's neck with his crop.
Christian spun, one hand dropping toward the sheath of
his Bowie knife. Worthing grinned.
"You're right about that, Injun. And I just put you on
my list. Now shut up and get ready to lay some
track."
Shoving Christian aside, he stalked by.
The Delaware fumed. Sean Murphy pressed a
palm against his belly and to the Virginian's back:
"Yes, sir, yer majesty, yer eminence."
Michael smiled. Greenup Williams laughed
aloud. Worthing's head jerked. The back of his
neck grew pink. But he didn't turn
or break stride. He kept walking east, ready
to signal the cart boy to bring the lorry car.
O'Dey looked unhappy. He seldom
fraternized with
the others and resented the bickering that frequently
interrupted the flow of work.
Despite Worthing's threat in the dining car,
Michael felt surprisingly devilish all at
once. Sarcasm and laughter were weapons Worthing
didn't understand, and against which he had no defense.
Your majesty. Your eminence. He'd have to remember
those.
By now Worthing had assembled all of his gangs.
They were gathered along both sides of the last section
of track. Worthing shouted and waved his crop. A
half mile away, Tom Ruffin kicked the horse
with his bare feet. The rope snapped taut. The
cart was jerked forward.
Sparks shooting from beneath its iron wheels, the cart
came rolling toward the waiting workers, the mounted boy
hallooing and thumping the animal with his heels. As the
cart neared the end of the track, men sprang forward,
seized it, and dragged it to a halt. Two of the men
shoved wooden chocks under the wheels while Tom
Ruffin leaped down, quickly unfastened the
rope and led the snorting horse off the roadbed.
Each of the waiting gangs knew its specific
job. The moment the horse was clear, a second
large group surrounded the cart. Pairs of men
lifted ties, ran them out ahead of the last rails and
lowered them to the hard-packed grade. Back where the
supplies had been dumped, another cart boy was
restraining his fretful horse and awaiting his
signal. The rails went down at the rate of two
every sixty seconds-no interruptions. Worthing
shouted a command. Other men beside the cart grabbed
chairs, positioned them on the ties. Then, on
Worthing's next order, Michael's five-man
gang on the south side of the grade and another gang
on the north converged on the cart.
Michael and Christian grabbed a
twenty-eight-foot rail and began to haul it
forward. The rail slid easily because the cart bed was
equipped with greased rollers.
"A March as Glorious as Sherman's"323
As soon as the rail was halfway out, O'Dey and
Greenup Williams took hold. Sean
Murphy caught the tail end. Simultaneously,
a second rail had been unloaded by the gang working
from the other side.
At a fast walk, the five-man gangs carried the
heavy lengths of iron over the new ties.
Michael could already feel the first strain in his
shoulders. By day's end, it would turn to pain.
Murphy shouted, "Down!" His opposite number
on the other gang was only a moment behind with a similar
command. Both gangs lowered their rails into the chairs
waiting on the interspersed hardwood and cottonwood
ties.
Men with notched wooden gauges jumped in, jamming
the gauges down while Michael and the others in the
two rail gangs kicked and shoved. Finally the
rails were fitted tightly in the notches. 
Meanwhile, the cart had been dragged off the
tracks. Tom Ruffin re-hitched his horse and
started back for more supplies.
Other men positioned the fish-plate joints and began
bolting the new sections of iron to the old. Next,
the spike gangs moved in with their mauls.
Workers crawled ahead of them, dropping spikes
into holes, and scuttling on as the mauls came
down. Michael continually marveled at the intricate
timing of the operation. A careless spikeman could brain
a spike handler if he swung too soon. But in
all the time he'd worked at the railhead
he'd never seen it happen.
The tie, chair, and rail gangs left the spikers
behind and ran forward. In a moment the second lorry
car arrived on the newly laid track. A new
section of ties went down-and the process of removing
the rails from the cart was repeated.
A familiar rhythm established itself while
Captain Worthing stalked up and down, shouting,
cursing and
demanding that the various crews under his command go faster,
to make up for time already lost.
u
The morning advanced, the sun climbed, and Michael
began to sweat. The labor was monotonous; mindless.
But the five men on his gang had learned to work well
together and took pride in their efficiency. Every man was
important to the total effort. Behind the perpetual
train, and interrupted only by the arrival of
supplies, other crews would be finishing yesterday's
track by shoveling and leveling fill between the ties.
South of the Platte an emigrant wagon packed
with household goods rolled by in a haze of dust, the
driver wigwagging his rifle. A woman and a small
girl in sunbonnets waved.
No one broke the rhythm of work, but there were
some shouts, inviting the older woman to pause for the
night, and earn a pile of extra money. Michael
was thankful the family couldn't hear the cheerfully
filthy remarks.
Such raillery was common enough whenever the rust-eaters
sighted a wagon with a woman in it. But the bawdiness
upset Worthing. He considered any deviation from
routine a violation of his authority. After the wagon
passed from sight, Greenup Williams didn"t
help matters by starting to whistle "Marching Through
Georgia."
"Better-was Breathing hard, Michael was lowering a
rail on Murphy's signal. "combetter pick a
less partisan time, Greenup."
"Oh, shoo," Greenup said, grinning. "I ain't
no chained slave on the captain's little old
plantation."
"True," Christian observed as the gauge men
moved in. "But if himself would get it through his dumb
skull that his side lost, we'd be a lot better
off. But no, he-was
"A March as Glorious as Sherman's"325
Suddenly Michael saw a long shadow behind the
Delaware; then Worthing himself. The captain's
gray duster was wet with sweat. Droplets
glistened in the stubble on his cheeks.
"No singing, nigger," Worthing said. "And no
remarks from you, either."
Flick. The crop stung the side of Christian's
cheek. A spot of blood shone in the sun.
Christian nearly lost his grip on the rail.
Michael felt a tearing strain in his shoulders as he
absorbed an extra share of the five-hundred-pound
weight. He braced the rail on his knee and got
it to the ground without mishap.
Bent nearly double and trying to help, Christian said
through clenched teeth, "Yes, sir."
"Your eminence," Michael added, realizing too
late that he'd let his temper slip.
With the rail down, the five men darted back to help
those with the notched gauges. Worthing extended the
crop; touched the bloody place on Christian's
cheek; affected a sympathetic smile:
"Tickled you a mite harder than I intended."
Christian glowered, one hand perilously near the
hilt of his Bowie. Worthing glanced at Michael,
then back to the Delaware.
"Tell you what. You rest ten minutes. Yonder's
the water bucket. Wash off that cut, and we'll
let Boyle handle the head end of the next
few rails."
Christian started to protest. Worthing fanned himself
with his straw hat.
"Go on, Christian," he said. "Take care of
yourself. Paddy Boyle's strong enough for a bit of double
duty." "Hold on, Captain!" Murphy
exclaimed. "One man can't haul the front of a
rail all by-was
"Be quiet," Worthing snapped. "Paddy
Boyle can. Can't you?"
Suddenly Worthing's face twisted. His smile
grew
fixed and ugly. He jabbed the end of the crop
into Michael's throat.
"Answer me, boy."
It was all Michael could do to keep from tearing the
detestable crop out of the Virginian's hand and using it
on him. But he swallowed; backed up a step.
O'Dey yelped. Michael ducked, nearly
brained by the backswing of a spiker's maul.
Alarmed, Sean Murphy and Greenup Williams
pulled him down the slanting side of the roadbed, out
of danger. Worthing kept watching as he put his
wide-brimmed straw back on his head.
"You can do it-can't you, boy?" he asked.
Every syllable' carried insult.
"You're damn right I can," Michael growled, and
turned his back, awaiting the next lorry car.
He saw Christian by the water bucket, slopping
the contents of a dipper over his cheek. The
Delaware's glance was sympathetic. Michael
tried to ignore it-as well as the ache in his shoulder
blades and the mumbled lamentations of O'Dey, who
hated trouble.
"You drop any rails," Worthing called,
"I'll see you're docked a week's wages. You
hear me, boy?"

When the cart arrived and the gangs moved in,
Michael seized the rail with both hands and yanked.
The other three men tried to give him as much help as
possible. But the moment the length of iron was lifted
free of the rollers, an excruciating pain shot through
his shoulders and down his arms.
He staggered on the hard-packed bed; nearly stumbled
over a tie. The noises of men shouting, horses
neighing, mauls thudding, metal clanging became a
torturous din.
"Down!"
"A March as Glorious as
Sherman's"327
Michael groaned as he bent, dropping more than
lowering the rail onto the ties. He staggered back,
his chest heaving and sticky with perspiration. He
snickered in a humorless way at the thought of the
Philadelphia clipping. He seriously doubted
old-Billy Sherman had ever enjoyed such a
glorious drenching of sweat while conducting his
glorious march. And the editorial writer probably
kept himself comfortable in a saloon bar while composing
his rhapsodic sentences about brave hearts and
indomitable wills. The only accurate statement in
the account was the reference to brawny muscles. A
man needed those and, to deal with a Worthing, iron
balls besides.
As soon as the rails were gauged and the spike men
began hammering, he dragged off his shirt and flung
it away. He unbuttoned his underwear, shucked out
of the sleeve and pushed the top half of the garment down
over his belt. Behind him he heard Worthing
chuckle.
Michael reddened. He'd show Worthing he could
handle two men's work-and do it without a murmur or a
mistake. He'd take all the bastard could
give-and more. By God he would!
Murphy sidled up; whispered:
"I can slip a word to Tommy Ruffin. Have him
fetch Casement. You know-so's his arrival looks
accidental."
Michael rubbed his palms over his sweat-slippery
forearms. "Casement's in Kearney. Left
yesterday."
"Then I'll get someone else."
"No."
"But-was
"No, Sean! Not on your sainted mother's life."
Rage
TIME BEGAN TO DISTORT as badly as his vision.
He seemed to have been alone on his end of the rails
for a century, though the reality of it was undoubtedly more
on the order of a half hour.
Intense pain had spread down the center of his back
and outward, toward his ribs. His palms had blistered
quickly. Despite several protests from Christian
that he was feeling fine, Leonidas Worthing
refused to put him back on the job:
"You rest a spell longer. Before he died, Old
Abe said we're supposed to treat coloreds like
white people. I assume that includes you right along with
Williams." His tone was mocking as he
continued, "You're due the same courtesy, the
same-watch it, boy!"
Michael's hands had slipped. The front end of the
rail thudded down. Only a clumsy stagger to the
side kept his right boot from being crushed. He stood
next to the rail, wiping his eyes and fighting
dizziness. "Ready to quit, Paddy Boyle?"
Michael drew a long breath and thought of Mrs.
A, as he'd called Amanda Kent when she was
alive. She wouldn't have truckled to anyone like
Worthing. Or admitted she couldn't handle the work.
"No."
Another ten minutes passed. Ten more rails, each
heavier than the last. Still Worthing refused to send
Christian back to help.
The five-man gang on the opposite side of the
roadbed kept working without comment, though Michael
occasionally caught a commiserating glance directed his
way. It didn't do a thing to help him regain his
failing strength. But it hardened his resolve to suffer
Worthing's punishment until he dropped.
Dimly, Michael saw towheaded Tom Ruffin
kicking his comhorse along the line with a fresh load of
supplies. He rubbed his bare, sweating shoulders.
Deep in the muscles, fires seemed
to be burning.
He gulped more of the hot morning air, readying himself
for the next effort.
The cart arrived, lather dripping from the horse's
"flanks. By the time the ties were removed, Ruffin
hadn't yet unhitched the animal. He was having
trouble with the knotted rope. Worthing waved to his
men.
"Keep going! Pull the rails off and" the devil
with the horse!"
Michael and his three companions moved in. This time
the head end of the rail felt as heavy as the whole
earth. Before it was three yards out from the rollers, the
rough iron popped a huge blister on Michael's
left hand. Draining water slicked his palm.
The rail slipped, banging down on the front edge
of the cart. O'Dey and Greenup lost control. The
rail slid forward, the end nudging the horse's
rump.
The animal neighed and shied, tangling its hoofs between
the ties. All at once the horse was tumbling
sideways.
The other gang had lifted its rail clear of the
cart. When the horse started to fall, they jumped
back, and let the rail drop. The horse
went down on top of it.
Michael's gang struggled to regain a hold on
their rail; finally moved it out past the front end of the
cart. But somehow, at that moment, O'Dey stumbled.
The rail tore out of Michael's hands. The forward
end struck the horse's thrashing hind legs.
The horse bellowed, pinned. Michael bowed his
head, shaking with rage over the blunder.
Worthing stormed toward him.
"Now you've done it, you lout!"
The horse screamed again. Men came running from up
and down the roadbed. Ruffin knelt by the frantic
animal, then jumped away from its flailing front
hoofs:
"Leg's broke, I think."
"You've cost us time, Paddy Boyle. Invaluable
time." Worthing sounded pleased.
"Listen here!" Murphy exclaimed. "You were the one
hollering for us to go ahead before the boy got the horse
untied!"
"Nevertheless, that'll be two weeks* pay docked for
Boyle. Maybe he'll even be rousted back
to Omaha."
Michael wanted to plant a fist right in the middle
of the Virginian's face. But he
didn't. He was furious over the way he'd let
Worthing maneuver him into responsibility for an
accident-though he was convinced the man had planned
to keep him working alone until a mishap occurred.
Tense, perspiring faces ringed him. Work had come
to a stop. One man was running pell mell toward the
office car to report the incident.
Before Michael could say a word, Christian shouldered
past him. With his back to Michael, the Delaware
said:
"You're the one who deserves firing."
Worthing's crop whipped upward. Christian
snatched it from his hand and sent-it sailing over the
frantic horse and the men beyond.
Worthing's cheeks reddened. Michael touched the
Indian's arm.
"Chrisitan, you don't need to take my part in-was
The Indian paid no attention:
"No one caused the accident but you, Captain. And
that's what we'll tell General Jack when he's
back from Kearney."
Murphy and Greenup agreed loudly. O'Dey
remained silent. So did most of the other workers, not
wanting to risk losing pay.
From the office car, a party of men
approached on the run. Worthing tried to laugh
away Christian's threat.
"You think Casement'll believe a mission-English
Injun over a white man? I seriously doubt
it."
"So do I," Christian smiled, startling the
Virginian. "However, you don't qualify as a
white man, or any other kind of man. The most
appropriate word for you is animal."
Worthing's right hand shot under his sweaty duster,
reappearing with a hide-out weapon-a four-barrel
derringer Michael had never seen before.
"Jesus and Mary!" O'Dey squealed. Men
scattered.
Christian reached for the hilt of his Bowie-but a moment
too late. Exhausted and dizzy as he was,
Michael managed to lunge forward and knock the
Delaware aside just as the derringer exploded.
Worthing's ball hit Christian's right calf. The
Delaware did a kind of jig step to the side,
regained his balance, then collapsed on his right
knee, clutching his leg, and wincing.
Michael's restraint collapsed, too. Head
down and fists up, he went for Leonidas
Worthing.
ii
He felt no need for niceties. He yanked
Worthing's wrist to his mouth and sank his teeth in
until he tasted blood.
That disposed of the derringer. He saw it wink and flash,
falling, as he rammed his knee in Worthing's
groin.
The Virginian doubled. Michael lifted his other
knee. It caught Worthing under the chin, smashing him
back onto the fallen horse. The animal's head
jerked up, and it trumpeted its pain again.
Michael barely heard the shouts of encouragement from
Murphy and Greenup as he dropped on
Worthing's gut with both knees. He laced his hands
together and began to pummel Worthing's head; chopping,
brutal blows he seemed powerless to stop, even though
he was incoherently ashamed of his anger:
This is comwhat I did in the war. This is what I
came out here to disbalance with something better.
Yet he kept striking harder. Harder-
Worthing's grabs at his forearms were ineffectual.
Blood and mucus dribbled from the Virginian's
nose. Michael's head hummed as his locked fists
rose and fell, turning the Virginian's face to a
smear of red.
Finally hands dragged him back. His legs crumpled
and he fell over in a faint.

"That all?" The very brevity of the question indicated how
furious Casement was.
The cluttered cubicle in the front car of the work
train was heavy with afternoon heat. Michael had wakened
about three-quarters of an hour after the brawl. He
still felt its effects in the aching sides of his hands,
now purpling with bruises.
He'd cleaned himself up, pulled his underwear and shirt
back on, swallowed some coffee, and been hustled
under guard to Casement's office, there to be locked in
until the construction boss arrived. Shortly before
noon the preceding day, Casement had ridden alone
to Kearney to straighten out some supply problems.
John Stevens Casement was no more than a year
older than Michael; thirty-seven. He stood a
scant five
feet four inches with boots on. The boots
didn't even touch the plank floor as he perched in
his chair in front of a roll-top desk littered with
survey maps, work rosters, and sheets of cost
figures.
Plainly dressed in a wool shirt and
old trousers, Casement had a tough, imposing
aura despite his slight build; an aura
enhanced by the brilliant red of his full beard and the
piercing quality of his pale eyes. He didn't
blink as he gazed up at Michael, who stood in
front of him with his feet wide apart. Spells of
dizziness and nausea were still making him wobbly.
"Yes," Michael answered, "that's how it
happened." After a moment he added, "I do feel
compelled to offer an apology. I had enough fighting in
the army to last me a lifetime, and when I came out
here, I vowed I'd done my last. I'm ashamed
of the way I went after Worthing. I had to prevent
him from shooting Christian, but I'm sorry about the
rest. No, let's say disappointed. In myself."
Casement tented his ringers. Thought a while. "I
don't like it," he announced in his customary blunt
way. "I don't like it one blasted bit,
Boyle-even though I know you're telling the truth."
Michael blinked. "You do? How?" "Did you think
I'd fail to ask questions before I came in here?
Murphy, Tom Ruffin, that freedman,
Williams comeven O'Dey-they all told it
pretty much the way you did. How Worthing ordered
the Indian off the job. Demanded your gang
go ahead while the horse was still hitched. Everything."
His mind sluggish, Michael finally thought to ask,
"How is Christian?"
Casement shrugged. "Flesh wound. Worthing's ball
went right through his calf. No bone damage. He'll
mend quickly." "Where is he?" "I asked the
liquor peddler's daughter to clean him
up and tend him for a few days. She arranged a
pallet in her tent." Casement's mouth quirked.
"Old Dorn may be a sot, but he's never too
addled to ask for money. The daughter's a decent young
woman. She'd have tended the Indian for nothing. But
the old man stepped in with his hand out, and I had no
time to haggle."
"Did you talk to Christian?"
"I did. He was coherent enough to support your
story."
Michael said nothing. But he was relieved.
"I was doubtful about hiring Captain Worthing,"
Casement continued. "I made my decision on the
mistaken assumption the war was over for all concerned.
The trouble is, I can hardly afford to discharge even
one man short of his committing murder. I've moved
tilde Worthing back to supervising the unloading of the
iron trains. I don't suppose
he'll be any more cooperative there, but at least you
two will be somewhat removed from one another. You marked
him up pretty fierce, you know," Casement
finished. It didn't sound like a reprimand.
"Where's Worthing now, General?"
"Confined to his bunk. Raving like the very devil, I
suppose. From now on you stay out of his way. Clean
out of his way, understand? If he comes after you, I'll
deal with him."
"I can't let other people be responsible for my
quarrels."
Casement slapped a palm on the desk. A
rolled map slid to the floor.
"You'll do what I say, Boyle, or you won't
work on this line! The horse had to be shot. You and that
fool Reb have cost me hah" a day. Half a
mile of track!"
His chair squeaked as he swung around and pointed to a
calendar nailed above the desk.
"Time-time! That's what you cost me. No one on this
line seems to fully understand that we must operate
like an army. We have an assigned objective-one
that I fully intend to reach on schedule. But doing it
requires discipline. The moment we lose
discipline, we're courting failure. I
made promises to Dr. Durant and the
directors. I won't let a lot of damn
squabbling disrupt this army, ruin my timetable, and
turn me into a liar!"
He subsided, drawing a long breath.
"Any fighting will be done with those Spencers we
carry. Do you know what I saw at sunup, riding
back from Kearney? Braves on the horizon.
Sioux, Cheyenne -I couldn't tell which. But there were
two or three dozen. This railroad's just another
invasion of their territory like the one that drove Red
Cloud out of Fort Laramie in a fury. The plains
tribes are afraid of us. They're afraid of the
locomotives, they're afraid of the telegraph
wires-you can't blame them for fighting back.
Especially after what's been done to some of them.
Idiots like that Colonel Chivington massacring
babies at Sand Creek two years ago-we even
have to contend with things for which we weren't responsible! So
if there's any fighting to be done, I want it
confined to Indian raids. God knows no one will do that
fighting for us. The army's still spread too thin out here.
How long has it been since you saw any troopers
gallop by?"
"Not since we passed Fort Kearney,"
Michael admitted.
And both men knew the Kearney fort was of little use in
defending the railroad. It was an infantry, not a
cavalry post. What few men the army had
available were miles to the west, protecting the grading
and bridging crews.
"Exactly. So I repeat, Boyle-any fighting
will be done out of necessity, not to settle private
feuds. I won't have a single man compounding our
problems."
Quietly, Michael asked, "Does that mean you
want me to quit?"
"No, dammit! Didn't you hear me say I
need every
hand? Why do you think I still tolerate Worthing's
presence?"
"May I inquire as to how much pay I'm losing?"
"None-this time. But if you get into it with him once more
I'll have your pay and your job."
"If he starts it-was Michael began.
"You walk away!"
Michael pondered; reluctantly shook his head.
"I appreciate your side of it, General. I
want to see this line go through. So do most of the men.
They'll say little about it-they'd be scorned
as sentimental-but they're as anxious to reach the
meridian as you. It's become a point of pride."
He looked Casement in the eye. "But I'm not
sure I can pay the price you've set. As I
told you, I had a bellyful of fighting in the
Irish Brigade. On the other hand, I will not be
trampled on."
He thought Casement was about to smile. He didn't.
Instead, he said crisply:
"Entirely up to you. We understand each other."
"Yes, sir," Michael started to leave.
"Boyle."
Michael turned back.
"You tell another man I said this and I'll deny it
to the gates of paradise. I wish you'd broken the
back of that son of a bitch."
At last Michael grinned.
"I almost wish I had too, sir."
"Mind, now-was Another stabbing finger. "It has
nothing to do with his former service-except that being on the
losing side affected his attitude. If any man
could have taken care of him, it would be one of Colonel
Meagher's own."
Michael's grin widened. "That's always how we
felt in the Irish Brigade. We could do
the job when others couldn't."
Casement sobered. "But you lost your chance. Don't
seek another."
Michael offered no assurances. He couldn't.
"Do you have any objections if I look in on
Christian this evening, General?"
"I don't care if you look in on Satan himself
so long as you avoid Worthing and help me lay a
mile of track a day, six days a week. Now
get out of here, find yourself a replacement, and take
charge of Worthing's gangs."
A stunned look. "Take charge?"
Exasperated, Casement waved: "Someone's got
to fill the man's spot! You're diligent. You know
the routine. You're promoted. Until and unless you
promote yourself back to Omaha."
Casement sat down, whirled his chair toward the
desk, and immediately began to sort through the accumulated
papers, the astonished Irishman already forgotten.
Jephtha's Decision
STARTING SHORTLY BEFORE
three in the afternoon, General Jack Casement
personally took charge at the end of the track.
From the supply handlers, Michael had already
dragooned a fifth member for his gang--a
plump, bowlegged acquaintance of Murphy's named
Artemus Corkle. And to the surprise of
Murphy and the rest, Michael insisted on being a
working supervisor. He handled the fifth position on
the gang and kept an eye on the various other
crews when he wasn't carrying rails.
He felt miserable; childishly weak after the
brawl. But he drove himself, unwilling to surrender
to the aches and dizziness. If he were to establish his
authority, it had to be done at once, while the
other gangs were still grateful Worthing had been
removed.
The strategy worked. Casement watched with approval
as Michael prodded and cajoled some spike men
who'd gotten sloppy, never showing his fear that he'd
pass out at any moment.
But Michael's performance was all that Casement
approved. Although the noon meal had been shortened from
one hour to twenty minutes, by the time the sun began
to slant low over the prairie, setting the Platte
alight with red ripples, not quite three-quarters of a
mile of track had been put down. Casement
grumpily called a halt. He murmured a word
of congratulations to Michael,
then announced there'd be no Sunday
labor. But the lost quarter of a mile would be made
up Monday.
Casement retired to his quarters, a scowl on his
face. He wasn't the only one scowling. As the
men straggled back toward the perpetual train, the
Saturday night conversation was short on laughter and
long on complaints. Business at Dorn's
whiskey wagon commenced almost at once.
Normally, Michael Boyle loved the calm of the
prairie evenings. The stark lines of the horizon were
softened by the dusk. Lanterns on the work train shone
like large yellow stars below the smaller, bluer ones
glimmering in the purple arch of the darkening east.
The beauty of the Nebraska sunset held little
attraction for him tonight. He was worn throughout from his
effort to stay alert and on his feet during the
seemingly interminable afternoon. He was tormented by pain in
his hands, shoulders, and back. He was increasingly
ashamed of having lost control and turned on
Worthing. And he couldn't forget the captain was still at
the railhead, his face pulped, and his authority
destroyed. Sean Murphy had reported the
Virginian was still lying in his bunk in one of the
sleeping cars; not Michael's, fortunately. No
doubt Worthing would soon be plotting
retaliation comif he wasn't already.
Casement's charge not to indulge in further fighting
rankled too. Michael wanted to do a good job of
handling his new responsibilities. That was the sole
reason he'd driven himself so cruelly all afternoon.
But if it came to a test of loyalty to General
Jack- loyalty meaning turning the other cheek to the
Virginian -Michael knew which way his decision
would go.
At the evening meal he said little to his companions,
Murphy and Greenup Williams. After a while
they ceased their jokes about earning promotions with bare
knuckles and let him eat in silence.
When their plates and cups were empty, the men
walked to the office car and waited their turn at the
paymaster's cubicle. Some of the rust-eaters took
all of their wages in greenbacks or gold.
Others had part or all of their pay posted to their
accounts. Michael chose the last alternative; he
didn't plan to buy any whiskey tonight. He
intended to sit with Christian-if Dorn's daughter
would permit him inside the tent.
During the final hour of the workday, a combination
payroll and commissary train had chugged in: two
cars, a tender, and a locomotive whose
engineer had decorated the top of his headlight box
with spreading stag antlers. The train also brought
mail. After having his wages marked down, Michael
walked back to see whether there might be a letter from
Jephtha.
To his surprise, he discovered two.

In his bunk, Michael poured a little of his carefully
hoarded tobacco into the bowl of his clay churchwarden,
lit the pipe, and wriggled into a comfortable position for
reading.
One of the two letters addressed in Jephtha Kent's
familiar, boldly slanted hand was extremely
thick. He opened the other, slimmer one first. It
took him about a minute and a half to scan the
message Jephtha had penned in mid-July.
Jephtha's first wife Fan had been prostrated
by a heat seizure and had died two days later.
Jephtha and his current spouse, the likable former
proprietress of a Washington boarding house, were
leaving next morning for the burial services in
Lexington. Gideon, his wife Margaret, and
then* four-year-old daughter Eleanor were going
too. Gideon was again searching for work, Jephtha
noted.
That last disturbed Michael. Gideon and his
family weren't having an easy time of it in New
York.
Michael had never met Jephtha's three sons.
Yet he felt a curious kinship with them due
to his closeness to their father. In spirit, he might have
been their cousin or half brother.
Of the three, he knew most about Gideon-because
Jephtha had had more to tell. Previous letters
written from Jephtha's small Methodist
parsonage had contained a good deal of information about
Gideon Kent's activities and attitudes
since the end of the war.
Michael knew Gideon had been glad to see the
conflict end. And he'd been fortunate that his rank
of major excluded him from those classes of
military men to whom Andrew Johnson's General
Amnesty Proclamation of May '65 did not
apply. Southern army colonels, navy
lieutenants, and any officer trained at West
Point or Annapolis who'd returned to The
South to fight were still considered guilty of treason
until personally pardoned. Had Gideon been a
colonel at the time of his parole, he'd have been
forced to seek the services of a new breed of
legal specialists operating in Washington. The
pardon attorneys or "brokers" could speed an
individual application to the President's desk
for a fee of @. 100 or $200. Even in making
peace there was profit for scoundrels and
opportunists, it seemed.
Michael knew Gideon had been dismayed at the
South's defeat. But he'd accepted k-and considered
that chapter of his life closed. He'd told his father
he was ready to get on with the business of making a
life for himself, his wife, and daughter. He'd even
shown Jephtha a document he'd written out as a
reminder. It was a verbatim copy of the widely
publicized loyalty oath required of those who
received individual clemency from Johnson.
Whoever took the oath vowed before God to support and
defend the Constitution of the United States and
to abide by the laws of the Union, including all
proclamations dealing with Negro freedom. Various
groups of
noncombatant Southerners exempted from
Johnson's general amnesty-postmasters,
judges, tax collectors, even former Confederate
government printers-had to swear the oath before they could
again buy or sell real estate, apply for
patents or try to recover their own land if it had
been confiscated as enemy property.
Gideon hadn't been required to take the oath.
He'd written it out as a private, personal
declaration. Jephtha was delighted his son had
returned to civilian life in a positive
frame of mind, determined not to let the past, or his
prison injury, ruin his future.
Despite the loss of his left eye, Gideon-at
least according to Jephtha-looked handsomer than ever, even
rakish with the black patch.
More important, he seemed to possess a new
drive. Before the war he'd been easygoing; an
indifferent student. The time in prison had made him
realize he knew nothing except cavalry
tactics. He'd decided he'd better settle
down and try to learn a skill-or at least find
gainful employment in some place where the economy was
still thriving.
Considering the question of secession settled, and the country
whole again, the place Gideon had chosen in
preference to burned-out Richmond was New York.
Jephtha had used his connections in newspaper
circles to get his eldest son a position as an
apprentice in the press room of
Gordon Bennett's highly successful New
York Herald. Working for the Union owned by Louis
Kent was out of the question.
Gideon's supervisors had reportedly praised
his diligence and quick wits. But he'd quit
quietly at the end of six months, unable
to tolerate the -confining indoor work. Reading the news
in a letter, Michael had recalled hearing Jephtha
once say his son was happiest outdoors, no
matter what the weather. Gideon had taken a
second job driving a wagon for a construction
company.
The man who hired him evidently hadn't been
concerned about his obviously Southern speech. That
wasn't the case with the manager of the firm's wagon
fleet. Gideon lasted exactly two
days-discharged and replaced by a former Union
soldier. The manager refused to pay wages to a
"Southron traitor." And according to this current letter,
Gideon had been unable to find another position.
Michael wasn't surprised. The labor market
was being flooded by returning veterans and newly
freed blacks migrating from the South.
In previous correspondence Jephtha had
confessed that he'd tried to offer financial
assistance to his son. But Gideon had a stubborn
pride and a determination to succeed by virtue of his own
hard work. Provided anyone would let him work.
Margaret had evidently made a fine adjustment
to New York, though. She liked the city, and had
helped tide the little family through lean times by doing
piecework for some of the better emporiums
specializing in individually designed gowns for
wealthy women. Gideon's wife was experienced in
that area because of the time she'd spent in her aunt's
Richmond apparel shop.
Jephtha had also remarked that Margaret had done a
marvelous job of creating a comfortable home in a
small rented house in lower Manhattan. And she
helped and supported Gideon in his effort to make
up for his lack of education through constant reading.
Naturally Jephtha regretted Gideon hadn't
cared to stick with the printing trade. As a printer, he
could have carried on the family tradition begun with
Philip Kent's founding of the firm of Kent and
Son in Boston-another business unfortunately still
under Louis Kent's ownership.
But Jephtha was clearly resigned to Gideon's
going his own way-if he could ever find that way in a
city glutted with Northerners and blacks
eager to take any job.
Jephtha and his son never saw Louis Kent
socially. Louis despised the elder Kent for his
role in exposing the illegal wartime trading
venture. And Gideon was a kind of living accusation
that Louis had been a shirker. Undoubtedly Louis
had paid the maximum fee-a trifling three hundred
dollars out of his millions-to exempt himself from the
1863 Conscription Act that had sent mobs of
poor New Yorkers into the streets for four days
to riot, burn, and hang blacks from lampposts as
a protest against the war and a draft lottery that only
the wealthy could escape.
Actually, Michael was thankful for the rift
separating Louis from his relatives. Julia Kent
was in his thoughts often enough as it was. It would have been
too painful if Jephtha's letters described
personal encounters with her.
The shorter letter closed with Jephtha saying that
fifteen months after the conclusion of hostilities,
he still knew nothing of the whereabouts of his two younger
sons.
Always a poor correspondent, Matthew had last
written his father early in 1865, from Havana.
Matt's skipper, McGill, had been
preparing to take his schooner Fair Amanda to one of the
last ports still open to the Confederacy-neutral
Matamoros, across the Rio Grande from
Brownsville, Texas.
That same, final letter from Matt had contained several
of the charcoal sketches he'd started making on his
own, without formal training, when he was much younger.
Jephtha had mailed a drawing to Michael. It was
tacked up in the bunk.
He glanced at the sketch now. A sinuous black
man, youthful but totally bald, dominated the
foreground. He was wearing only a pair of ragged
trousers and balancing a metal can on one shoulder.
The black's other hand was extended, as if he were
pleading with someone. His grin was infectious, his eyes
merrily sly; the whole figure was bent forward
to suggest
a subservience that was affected and hence not degrading.
The lines of the figure were echoed in a few strokes
suggesting a palm in the extreme background. Between
the tree and the black was a smaller figure, a
lighter-skinned gentleman in a white suit and
wide-brimmed hat. He had a cheroot in his mouth
and a small girl in his arms. In contrast to the
controlled rigidity of the watcher, the black
was all motion and suppleness.
Matt had signed the drawing M. Kent, and lettered a
caption:
MILK SUGAR LAMTER, HA
Jephtha had often mentioned his second son's
total inability to spell.
There'd been no further word of Matt since that
final letter. Saddening, Michael thought with another
glance at the picture. Not only had Jephtha
perhaps lost a son, but possibly the world had lost a
young man whose talent might someday have developed to an
important level. Michael was no student of
art. But he liked the composition of the drawing; the
artful balance of line against white space. Matt's
style had a crude vibrancy that, once seen,
wasn't easily forgotten, or confused with another's
work.
The final paragraph of the shorter letter was the saddest of
all:
Of Jeremiah I know even less, and fear him
dead. Many military records were either destroyed or
lost when Davis and his crowd fled Richmond and
carried their government into its brief exile. I am
sure Jeremiah's regiment was in the Atlanta
theatre, and that he was present in the ranks
in the autumn of 1864.
Beyond that point I have been unable to trace him. I
suspect I will never know his fate-nor where he
fell in the midst of the chaos attending Sherman's
triumph in Georgia. To go to Fan's burial with
that knowledge weighing on my mind is grievous, indeed.
Thankfully, God's hand is ever present to lighten
the burden. Hoping you are well, I remain
Faithfully, Jephtha
ill
Michael turned his attention to the second, thicker
envelope. The pages-ten or more, inscribed on
both sides comhad been written in early August,
following Jephha's return from Lexington.
There was pain in the very first paragraph. Lexington had
reminded Jephtha not only of the rift which had
destroyed his family and deprived him of his
itinerancy, but of the death of his good friend, General
Thomas Jackson, at Chancellorsville.
Michael already knew Gideon had been present
when Stonewall had been accidentally shot down by men
from his own side.
But there was elation in the letter as well:
We were back from Lexington scarcely twenty-four
hours when, with the abruptness of a thunderbolt,
we received a communication from Matthew-execrable
spelling and all!
In almost the final week of the war, his skipper did
indeed run his schooner to the mouth of the Rio Grande,
forty miles below Matamoros. Munitions from the
schooner were put aboard the customary lighters for
transport up the river. A ferocious squall
struck without warning and destroyed every one of the small
craft, and drowned McGill and several crewmen.
Matthew survived with severe injuries, recovery
from which literally required months. We had hardly
absorbed the joyous news when, concluding an arduous
trip overland from Texas, Matthew himself appeared
on our doorstep!
Here Michael was so startled, he inadvertently
sucked too hard on the churchwarden and drew smoke
into his lungs. He coughed for almost a minute before
he was able to resume reading.
My son greeted us as if he had not been away for
more than an overnight holiday. He then announced
he was sailing for Liverpool, where he is to marry a
young woman with whom he fell in love during his
initial visit to the British Isles! For the first
time since my return to the pulpit, 1 confess I
availed myself of the medicinal bourbon
Molly hides in the pantry.
Matt's surprising liaison came about this way:
While McGill was still skippering a steam
blockade runner into Wilmington, the vessel was
badly hulled by Federal cruisers, and sank.
All hands gained the Carolina shore. Eventually
McGill and Matt returned to Bermuda, then
traveled to Liverpool to arrange for construction of a
second steamer, which McGill financed from profits.
The vessel was built at the Birenhead
Ironworks, across the Mersey from the city proper; the
very same yard which launched Semmes* Alabama and
several other Confederate raiders.
The young woman to whom Matthew lost his heart is the
daughter of a steam fitter employed by the Lairds,
proprietors of the Birkenhead Yard. Matthew first
saw the girl there. He struck up a conversation with
her at a mass meeting held in the city to express
support for Lincoln's emancipation decree.
Matthew had gone to the meeting to-as he put it-hear
what the other side was saying.
The young woman, I might note, was an ardent foe
of the slave system; and Matthew told me in a
strangely disarming way that he soon concluded the
"other side" was right. I do not think romance
alone was responsible for his change of heart. He
finally
thought the matter through. He still kept on comwith his seagoing
duties out of loyalty to his captain and the cause,
however.
The name of the young woman is Miss Dolly Stubbs.
If Molly and I may believe the photograph
Matt showed us, she is a lovely, lissome girl
with blond hair and a face that speaks of good humor,
pertness, and determination.
Once Molly and I had recovered from the detonation
of Matthew's "bombshell," I commented upon my
son's long silences during the war. He looked
bewildered and scratched his head in a rather absent
fashion. He ignores clocks; he totally
lacks a sense of the passage of time.
When I asked what exactly he had done while
away for so long, his reply was characteristically vague and
breezy-"Why," he said. "McGill and I ran
guns in and we ran cotton out until a boiler
explosion sent the second steamer to the bottom off
Bermuda.
"Then we went to Cuba and McGill used his last
money to purchase a sailing schooner to operate in the
Gulf. In between all that I taught the
Bermuda nigras and the Cubans and the Liverpool
shipyard boys to play our version of baseball, when
I wasn't sketching or falling in love. It was
all damn lively. I had very few spare moments
in which to write letters."
No spare moments in almost five years? The most
sanguinary struggle in our nation's history "damn
lively?" I must say Matthew is a unique
boy!
Gideon and Matthew got along well during the
five-day visit. It was altogether a happy reunion;
they seem to like one another even after long separation.
But beyond a prompt marriage, I have no notion of
what Mail's future plans may be. Nor
does he. Hardy and outgoing, he is apparently
content to travel wherever the winds of chance and his
romantic alliance may blow. He will never be
industrious like Gideon- who, by the way, is still
unable to find work. But for the moment, Matt has no
need to be industrious. His share of the profits from his
various voyages was no
small sum. He was handsomely attired in the latest
gentleman's fashions when Gideon's family,
Molly, and I saw him onto the Liverpool
steamer.
Once recovered from the excitement of Matt"s
visit, I returned to prayerful consideration of a
matter much on my mind of late. I have not mentioned
it to you before, and it is time I did.
I am no longer a young man, Michael. I have
been giving considerable thought to the disposition of the
California money. I would like to use a portion of it
to re-purchase the Boston publishing house before I
die.
Of course I know next to nothing about the book
trade, only a little something about newspapering. But
I would like to have Kent and Son back in the family,
since the company is of small importance to Louis
in comparison to the Union, his textile and steel
interests.
Louis-need I tell you-has no grasp of the
worthy purpose of publishing, nor any interest in
it. Kent and Son today is in even worse straits
than it was when it was the property of that blackguard
Stovall. The firm has, in fact, ceased
publication of conventional books altogether. Shifting with the
tides of popularity and Opportunism, it now
issues nothing but cheaply printed fiction
weeklies, which may be had for one of those new copper
and nickel five-cent pieces the
Congress authorized in May.
Even Rose Ludwig's novels have been stripped
of boards and republished in gaudy paper covers.
1 am thankful Amanda's dear friend is no longer
alive to suffer the degradation of her work by a man
solely interested in profit.
Louis obviously hopes to duplicate the success
of the Beadle firm by imitating their "nickel
novelettes." To this end, he has discharged poor
Dana Hughes, and replaced him with a staff of
hacks. Do you wonder 1 would like to buy out such a
pack of rascals?
The decision, of course, belongs to Louis-and I
suspect he will turn his back on any overture
I might make. I know his hatred of me. Still,
imitators usually
The Warrior
.
fail-and should this prove trite with Kent and Son,
greed might get the better of emotion. One never
knows with men such as my esteemed cousin.
So F will watch the situation. I want the firm
fully as much as I want my great-grandfather
Philip's sword, his portrait, and the other
family artifacts Louis keeps at
Kentland with no regard for the tradition or the ideals
they symbolize.
I honestly cannot say what I would do with the publishing
company if I had it-beyond rehiring Dana Hughes
at once. But I still dream of restoring it, along
with the aforementioned heirlooms, to-how shall I put it?
Clean hands. Honorable hands.
In the event such a purchase is ever possible, I
propose to divide the ownership of Kent and Son
equally between Gideon, Matthew, and you.
The last word struck Michael like a blow. He
started, spilling burning flakes of tobacco on his
shirt. One left a hole in the fabric before he
batted them out.
Don't be astonished, Michael. You are more a
Kent than Amanda's own son. Should acquisition
of the firm ever become a reality, you would enjoy an
additional security you well deserve. I say
"additional" for good reason. Jeremiah is clearly
gone for all time. Thus I can, in good conscience,
transfer his share of the California wealth to you. I have
so stipulated in a
new will.
IV
"God above!" Michael breathed. His hand
shook so badly, he dropped the sheets.
He collected them hastily, then fumbled more time
away putting them back in proper order.
Still stunned, he read the last paragraph again. He
wasn't dreaming.
Jephtha's Decision
Do not think this a rash act on my part. You were of
inestimable value to Amanda. I know she loved you.
After her death, it was you who raised Louis, and
helped restore me to life when I fled
Lexington, turned out of my own house. I owe you
a great debt. , The family owes you a debt. And
you are as much a Kent as I.
Indeed, my vanity even makes me wish your last
name could be ours, but that would be an affront to your
parents. So you shall be a Kent in all respects
except the name.
Michael leaned back and closed his eyes. He
tried to assess all Jephtha's decision could mean
to him. How it would change his existence-for it certainly
would.
But believing, really believing what he'd just read was
still too difficult. He forced his attention back to the
letter.
The rest was less personal; more
philosophical-but no less charged with emotion.
Jephtha turned to the war's aftermath; mentioned the
gratification he'd derived from the Constitution's
Thirteenth Amendment, ratified only the preceding
December. The Amendment had forever abolished the
institution of black slavery. He'd also been
heartened by the passage of certain other pieces of
national legislation.
It was a milepost on the march for human liberties
when the Congress overturned Johnson's veto in
February, thereby extending the life and enlarging the
scope of the Freedman's Bureau, which can be of
continuing service to the Southern Negro. The
Radicals say Johnson used the veto to pander
to the South's Democratic aristocracy. But any
man who reads Johnson's record correctly
will know the class he despises
most, North or South, is the privileged
class. He idolizes men who work their own land; his
beloved "mudsills." The President's greatest
fault, if it can be termed that, is perhaps a
too-strict adherence to the Constitution. He felt the
Freedman's Act could not be legal since the
eleven Confederate states comwere not represented in
the national legislature and had no voice
in the act's passage.
As you may know, Johnson likewise vetoed
Lyman Trumbull's civil rights bill, which
declared that all persons born in the country are
automatically citizens, entitled to equal rights and
protection under the law. Trumbull introduced the
bill to negate the Supreme Court's Dred
Scott decision. Here, too, the President
hewed closely to his interpretation of the Constitution,
maintaining that the matters covered by Trumbull's
bill are solely the province of the individual
states. He still insists the bill as finally enacted
over his veto is another step-in his words, "a long
stride"-to centralization and concentration of
legislative power in Washington.
To be doubly sure Johnson's view would not one
day be declared Constitutionally correct by the High
Court, many of the same provisions of Trumbull's
bill were introduced into the Fourteenth Amendment
passed in June and now being submitted to the states
for ratification.
The struggle between Johnson and the Congress has
become a sorry, stained business-carried forward on
both sides with mounting acrimony. As Mr.
Voorhees, the Democrat, so aptly
put it, the actions of Thad Stevens and his
Radical Republicans serve notice that the war
to restore the Union was an utter failure; the war
is over, and yet the Union is rent in twain.
Michael knew what Jephtha meant. The Omaha
and St. Louis papers had told him a war of quite a
different sort had been underway in the capital almost
since the hour the bells tolled Lincoln's death.
Some of the more
extreme Republicans has supposedly hailed
the assassination as a godsend," assuming the new
President would throw Lincoln's reconstruction
plans into the dustbin and take a harder line.
They'd gotten a shock when Johnson began
to implement policies dating all the way back
to an 1863 formula for establishing new Southern
governments after the war. At that time Lincoln had
been willing to grant executive recognition
to rebel states in which ten per cent of the eligible
voters of 1860 took an oath of loyalty and
agreed to support emancipation.
No such easy terms would satisfy the
Republican extremists any longer. As a
result they were at war not only with the President and the
Democrats but with the more conservative
members of their own party; a fierce and bitter war
rooted in a fundamental dispute over the nature
of the four-year military struggle.
In the papers, old Thad Stevens, the cynical and
vituperative leader of the House's radical wing,
constantly referred to the seceded states as "conquered
provinces" whose future condition depended on "the will
of the conqueror."
Johnson's position, and that of the more moderate
Republicans, was simply that the Southern states
had never seceded because it was impossible for them to do so
under the Constitution. They were still states, to be dealt with
accordingly. Jephtha mentioned Stevens:
Though in his seventies, he possesses the
unrelenting energy-and savagery-of a man half his
age. He busies about Washington with his queer
black wig askew and his club foot dragging, never
bothering to deny press accounts of his liaison up in
Lancaster with his mulatto housekeeper, Lydia
Smith. He is aligning his forces for the coming battle
to determine whether the President or the Congress shall
dictate Reconstruction policy.
And a battle it will surely be. I am kept
informed about it by occasional letters from colleagues.
Twice in the past year I have been down
to Washington in person. And Theo Payne, that good and
downtrodden man who continues to edit the Union under
Louis' direction, brings his brood to supper every
fourth week or so-the only evening of the month on .
which he is forced to remain sober!-so I am not
unfamiliar with the conflict that may yet prove more
harmful to the country than the war itself.
Payne told me the Washington war has even
reached into the spirit realm! You do know there is quite a
craze back here for nontheological s@eances
purporting to put relatives in touch with deceased
loved ones?
According to Payne, a Mrs. Cora Daniels of
Four and a Half Street, Washington, recently
spoke using the voice of a "Mr. Parker," one of the
departed. "Parker" predicted Johnson would soon
arrest many of the radicals, convene a "congress of
Southerners and Copperheads" and force "patriots,"
such as Stevens, to retreat to another location-Ohio
was mentioned comthere to set up a rival Congress! The
bizarre business ended with "Parker" stating we would
soon be engaged in a second Civil War-this time
largely fought on Northern soil. I trust I
convey how tragic I find all of this. No one
has hoped and prayed longer than I for an
end to bloodletting. Now it appears we must have more,
albeit brought about with different weapons.
Neither has anyone hoped and prayed longer than I
for an end to the foul business of slavery. Yet now
that it is accomplished, I wonder how smoothly the
freedmen can be brought into the main stream of American
society.
Even such a staunch Unionist as General Sherman
has said that universal suffrage-the issue by means
of which Stevens and his crowd means to force their control of
Reconstruction on the President-may lead to
"new convulsions" in the country.
Although I sometimes speculate as to how much of Thad
Stevens' venom springs from the destruction of his
Pennsylvania iron foundry by Lee's troops
on their way to Gettysburg, I feel Stevens
cannot be entirely faulted.
The new Southern legislatures established under the
Lincoln formula showed an old face with their
so-called Black Codes intended to control the
behavior of the liberated slaves. Some of the Codes
prohibit blacks from riding in rail cars set
aside for whites. No intermarriage is possible
without penalty of imprisonment. Parentless Negro
children apprenticed under court guidance are
subject to recapture, exactly like slaves, if
they flee from cruel masters.
In these and similar laws I heard again the rattle
of the chains. The rights of new citizens must be
guaranteed comand chief among these rights in suffrage.
But I have begun to smell a taint in the
Radicals' espousal of it. I first caught a
whiff last December, when I sat in the House
gallery and listened to Stevens challenge the
administration.
He would keep the Southern states from any active
role in government until the Constitution has been
"amended so as to secure perpetual ascendancy to the
party of the Union"-meaning, of course, the
Republicans.
With cynical candor, he predicted that unless the
Negroes were given the vote, the balance of power would
swing to the Southerners and the Democrats. But if
suffrage could be made universal, he said, there would
"always be Union men enough in the South, aided by the
blacks, to divide the representation, and continue
Republican ascendancy." So, you see, it is
not an honorable war, but one with a secret purpose.
The "secret" becomes more blatant day by day.
You might also be interested-or dismayed-to
know that many a Northern businessman has smelled the
opportunity inherent in this immoral plan. One
such is Louis. He has long been a notorious
trimmer, pretending to favor first one side, then
another, as
seemed expedient. Now, however, he has declared
himself not only a Republican like you and me, but a
Thad Stevens Republican!
Michael's mouth quirked in distaste as he drew
smoke from the pipe, exhaled, and let the fragrance
of the tobacco mask some of the fetid smell of the
deserted car. Outside he heard a whoop from the
direction of Dorn's wagon. He reminded himself
that he owed Christian a visit as soon as he
finished reading.
still do not believe Louis has joined the Stevens' wing
from humanitarian motives. He would be the last
to welcome freed blacks at his dining table, no
matter how much he prates about the wisdom of
universal suffrage. I imagine he only sees
the potential for power-the deliberate and pitiless
manipulation of human beings that could assure
Republican supremacy for years to come. No
doubt he has allied himself with the cause in order
to be on the winning side. The taint has
crept even into our family.
Thus the war goes on. Different from the last, but no
less furious. You would be appalled by the actions of
politicians in both camps as they seek
to influence public opinion by enlisting the support of
popular war heroes. How ardently both sides
court Grant!- though Johnson appears to have him
in his pocket for the moment.
Second only to the supreme commander is Custer, the
"boy general." His chief military talent seems
to have been the ability to commit huge numbers of men
to slaughter in order to secure commendations for himself and
advance his career.
Yet he remains overwhelmingly popular. He was
here late in March, attending lavish dinners at the
Manhattan Club, and was constantly in the company
of Democrats. He himself belonged to the
McClellan clique whose political views
divided and nearly destroyed the Army of the
Potomac for a time, just as
surely as aid McClellan's own vacillations
and presidential ambitions.
The Republicans, it is said, would like Custer in
their camp-and never mind his views about the fitness of
blacks for citizenship. On the subject
of permitting Negros to vote, Custer is fond of
stating he'd "as soon think of elevating an
Indian Chief to the Popedom of Rome" Can you
doubt that the aim of some Republicans is not
justice throughout the land, but absolute rule by their
party? . Everywhere, in fact, there is much to dismay men
of conscience. Davis is still in prison at Fort
Monroe, facing indictment for treason.
Lee-honorable, misguided Lee whom I also
saw in Lexington at the time of Fan's
funeral-is eking out a living as president of
Washington College. Good neighbors who know his
straits send bags of walnuts, potatoes, and
pickles to his household table while Northern
newspapers villify him as a "sinister
conspirator"-this proud, torn, Christian man who
refused a plea at Appomattox that he give his
soldiers leave to take to the hills and woods and
continue to fight as partisans. He told them to go
home, admit defeat, build new lives. Yet
he is labeled "sinister." Is this the "malice
toward none" of which Lincoln spoke, and which
Johnson is struggling to implement?
Still, I am not totally without hope. While the
political war rages here in the East,
there is a counterbalancing dynamism; a sense of
our nation being only moments away from the dawn of a
mighty age of expansion, if we can but keep the
Union whole. Never, they say, has there been a
period of such enormous industrial growth-or such
visions of a prosperous, thriving land from sea to sea.
You are part of one of the remarkable enterprises that can
bring those visions to reality. The transcontinental
railroad will open the West to commerce and settlement
in a manner undreamed of even a decade ago.
Public land is there for the taking, a hundred and
sixty acres of it available to any man, thanks
to the Homestead Act.
Though we live in a troubled time, it is also a time
of promise. I try to believe a spirit of healing, not
hatred, will prevail. I try to have faith that even the
schemes of a rapacious new class of moguls who
care nothing for the human lives they exploit to see
their factories prosper-yes, and their railroads
built-will, in the end, yield blessings we cannot
imagine.
Michael, forgive this long discourse written late
at night. Poor Molly despairs of my
nocturnal panderings and scribblings. But there are not
many others with whom I can share my deepest
thoughts.
I wish you good health and success in your courageous
venture in a part of the country foreign to you. From such
willingness to strike out in bold new directions was this
country born-and, as I recall, the Kent family
founded!
Slowly, Michael laid the churchwarden on his
belly. He stared at the last sheet in his blistered
hand. The paper seemed to fade, replaced by Julia
Kent's blue eyes.
Courage?
Bold new directions?
Jephtha, I'm glad you don't know all the
truth.
With effort, he returned to the brief conclusion.
still look forward to any descriptions you can send of the
exciting enterprise in which you are involved. May
God bless and protect you. Remember that from this
hour, my revised will makes you a bona ride
member of the family to which, by word and deed, you have belonged
for many years.
Your kinsman, Jephtha
Michael was still touched and overwhelmed by Jephha's
act of generosity. All at once an idea came
to mind. An important idea.
He gathered up the pages, folded them, and slipped
both letters beneath his blanket. He jumped down from the
bunk and quickly left the car.
VI
Two stragglers were all that remained at the
paymaster's cubicle. Michael fretted
impatiently while one received his greenbacks, and the
balding clerk noted the wages of the second in a
thick ledger. The clerk yawned as Michael stepped
to the counter.
"Give me the book containing the B's, Charlie.
And your pen."
"What is this, Boyle? You've already received-was
"I know. But my name isn't listed properly."
"What?"
"Just ink your pen and give it to me."
Annoyed, the clerk handed him the pen, together with another
ledger. Michael thumbed the pages. Located the
correct line. He slashed a stroke through three
words, hoping his dead parents would forgive him for
abandoning Aloysius, which they had bestowed. His eyes
looked wet as he wrote carefully.
He returned the pen and rotated the ledger so the
clerk could read it.
"There. That's the correct version."
The clerk peered. "That's all you wanted? What the
hell does it matter if we've got your middle
name right or wrong? You're paid the same either way."
"It matters more than you'll ever appreciate,"
Michael replied softly. "Much more."
He turned and left while the puzzled clerk
studied the drying ink that spelled out Michael Kent
Boyle.
Darn's Daughter
MICHAEL STEPPED DOWN from the office car and
breathed deeply. The air had turned cool and
invigorating. His assortment of aches and bruises
seemed less troublesome now.
The dark near the train was relieved by two torches
stabbed into the ground at the corners of Gustav
Dorn's whiskey wagon. Dorn himself was dispensing
liquor from one of the barrels. He was a short
untidy man with a gray-shot beard. His huge
belly hung over his belt. He seldom smiled.
At the moment he had at least thirty customers
lined up. Each drinker took the dipper from Dorn
and swallowed whatever amount he'd bought while those
waiting shouted for him to hurry. When the customer had
finished, he went to the merchant's son a few steps
away.
The phlegmatic-looking boy was perched on a
small box behind a crate. His Hawken lay across
his knees. The customer deposited his money on a
tin plate lying on the crate. Occasionally the boy
had to change a greenback or a coin. The rest of the
time he paid no attention to the drinkers, staring out past
the nearest torch in a joyless, vacant way.
As Michael walked closer to the wagon, one man.
who'd evidently passed through the line more than once
spilled the contents of his dipper. Those waiting
laughed and hooted. Dorn demanded payment. The worker
refused.
Beyond the train, a cow lowed. Michael paused by one
of the torches to watch the outcome of the dispute. Dora
spoke English badly but got his point across.
"You buy-you pay. Not my fault you sloppy."
"I'll be damned if I'll give ye a cent for
somethin' I never tasted, Dutchie." There was humor
in the customer's eyes, but testiness in his slurred
voice. He wobbled around to get a judgment from those
in line. "What d'ye say, lads? Am I fair
or not fair?"
"Fair, fair!" a couple of his friends yelled.
Dorn snapped his fingers and barked German at his
son. The stolid fat boy raised the
Hawken. With a start, Michael saw the hammer was
back, ready to fire.
Dorn looked smug as he tapped the customer's
shoulder. The man batted his hand away.
Excitedly, the workers in line pointed to the rifle.
The drinker saw it and turned pale.
Torchlight shimmered on the Hawken's
thirty-four-inch barrel. The St. Louis-made
gun might be a good twenty years old, but at
short range it could ruin a man with its
.50-caliber ball. Dorn made clear that he
intended nothing else.
"Shit with fair, Paddy. You pay. Now. Or my
boy, he take the price out of your hide."
Grumbling, the man dug a hand into his pocket.
He clenched his fist around the coin, then raised his hand
as if he meant to hit the merchant.
Dom retreated a step. "Klaus!"
The Hawken jutted forward across the top of the crate.
After another glance at the rifle, the drinker lowered
his hand. He gave Dorn the coin.
The little act of extortion finally produced a smile
from the merchant. He waved the man aside and
brandished the dipper at the line:
"Next fellow! Step lively, hah?
Got a business to run here."
The boy returned the Hawken to his knees,
uncocked. Michael shook his head. The East had
no monopoly on greed. And if the little scene he
had witnessed was typical of the way Dorn conducted
his trade, serious trouble was bound to erupt
eventually.
He walked by the rear of the line, waving
to acquaintances. Out in the dark near the end of the
track, a fire of buffalo chips blazed. A
group of Paddies sat around it. One started a song
on an old concertina.
Michael recognized it instantly: "Corcoran
to His Regiment," sometimes known as "I Would Not
Take Parole." Corcoran had commanded the New
York 69th at First Manassas, been
captured, and imprisoned in Richmond. Paddies
by the fire-men who'd never come anywhere near the Irish
Brigade but were still proud of its record-bellowed the
words.
his
"Raise the green flag proudly, "Let it wave
on high-was *
The song conjured memories for Michael.
Memories of smoke; thundering shells;
wounded comrades begging for help as the ranks plunged
past them. Bits of terrain he'd seen in
Pennsylvania and Virginia-woodlands,
hillsides-blended in his imagination like a mural by a
deranged artist.
"Liberty and Union "Be your battle cry!"
Sean Murphy lurched to his feet. Fists on his
hips, he began to jig while the singers applauded
in rhythm.
"Faugh-a-ballagh shout was "From your center to your
flanks- "And carry death and terror wild "Into the
foeman's ranks!"
"Faugh-a-ballagh." How stirring that Gaelic
cry to clear the way had been during the early days;
and how sadly futile in the weeks and months after
Gettysburg, when the ranks were so disastrously thin.
Michael returned a hail from one of the revelers,
declined an invitation to join them, and strode on.
He wanted no more fighting-not even in memory.
Yet he'd gotten more of the real thing this very day. The
railroader's music reminded him of the peace that
seemed to elude him. The thrill of Jephtha's
news was all at once blunted by a recollection
of Leonidas Worthing.
Quickly, Michael looked behind him. His
gaze encompassed torches at the whiskey wagon;
the smudged yellow of the train's windows; the starry
dark above. For a moment he'd been certain he was being
observed. He saw no indication of it.
An uncontrollable gloom settled over him.
He'd traveled thousands of miles to escape war,
but as long as Worthing remained at the railhead, he
was smack back in the middle of one. A lone man
or a regiment-either could kill you.
Despite his gloom and nervousness, he forced himself
to stand still while he relit his churchwarden. Then he
hurried on to the Dorn tent.

The tent stood a good twenty yards behind the wagon.
A lamp inside made the front section glow. The
rear was dark. He stepped to the flap and called
softly.
"Hallo?"
"Who's there?"
"Beg pardon, Miss Dorn-is that you?"
The unseen girl laughed. "I've seen no other
women in this godless place. I expect so."
A feminine silhouette appeared suddenly on the
front
of the tent. Unlike her father, she spoke
without an accent.
"Who might you be?"
"The name's Michael K. Boyle."
"Oh, yes, Papa mentioned you." It was crisply
said, with a faint edge of reproof. "The one who
caused the trouble."
"The one who was on the receiving end of the trouble, if you
don't mind! I had no hand in causing it." Not quite
true. But the unseen girl had irked him.
"Well, it makes no difference." she replied in
an airy way. "It was still ungodly quarreling."
That was two references to godlessness in a space of
seconds. Disgusted, he blew out a puff of
smoke. She must be a proper prude, all right.
He tried to control his annoyance:
"Whatever the cause, the result was the shooting of my
friend Christian. I understand you're tending him?"
"That's correct. He'll recover splendidly."
"I came to visit him-which is pretty blasted
difficult with this tent between us. Would you be so kind as
to let me in?"
She ignored his sarcasm. "Are you alone?"
He had a good notion to inform her that *a dozen
wild-eyed rapists were hovering behind him.
"I am."
"All right, then. But your friend's asleep."
A hand lifted the flap. Michael ducked, starting
inside, then stopped short. His mouth opened. The
churchwarden fell from his lips. He caught it in
time, letting out a loud, "Oww!" as his thumb
accidentally jabbed into the hot bowl.
Licking his thumb and wincing, he didn't move.
He was still thunderstruck.
A single lamp hung from the ridgepole. An open
Bible lay on a stool beside an untidy cot along
the left wall. To judge from the garments strewn on
it, the cot
belonged to her father or brother. The twin of the boy's
Hawken was propped against an equally messy cot
on the right-another male domain; a pair of patched
trousers lay beneath.
Directly in front of him-no longer disguised
by distance or a shapeless coat and hat-was the real
cause of his surprise.
In one way, the workers whose hurts she'd tended had
exaggerated. But perhaps to men of forty, a woman in her
late twenties could properly be called young. Their
other claim had been understated. She was more than just
pretty. Without benefit of paint or furbelows,
she was lovely.

"For heaven's sake come in or go out, one or the
other, Mr. Boyle," she said in a sharp tone.
She wore trousers of denim cloth tucked into heavy
boots, and a man's work shut that fit tightly over
large well-shaped breasts. She had her father's
square jaw but a more generous mouth and clear,
blue-gray eyes. Hair the color of summer
wheat was drawn into a bun at the back of her head.
Her skin had a sunburned coarseness-more noticeable
on the backs of her hands. The knuckles were red.
Yet he found the weather-beaten look curiously
attractive. She had fine wide hips and
smelled not unpleasantly of strong soap.
"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your first name-was
he began.
"Is there any reason why you should be? It's
Hannah. Now do you wish to see your friend?"
She turned sideways, inadvertently drawing his
eye to the curve of her breast. When she noticed,
her cheeks pinked.
"Mr. Boyle!"
He jerked to attention. "Yes?"' "He's behind the
canvas partition. I don't think it would be
advisable for you to wake him up. Just glance
in."
He didn't know what to make of the woman. She
seemed to have more than a touch of her father's stern
temperament, and some of her remarks would have been
downright disagreeable had they not been tempered by her
smile and a pleasant voice. Her gaze was
uncomfortably direct.
Michael shifted the pipe from one hand to the other. She
gestured:
"You burned your thumb."
"Nothing serious."
"A burn is always serious for a man who works with his
hands. You've blisters, too, I see. I have some
salve that would help. I'll apply it before you
leave."
'Truly, it's not necessary."
"Yes, it is. Women know more about such things than
men. However, I'd appreciate it if you'd
extinguish your pipe." She smiled. "Smoking is
a wasteful, unhealthy habit."
"Oh, I see! Whatever you say, Miss
Dorn." His tone was as tart as hers of a few
moments ago.
He stuck his arm outside, turned the pipe over,
and shook the remaining embers and tobacco to the
ground. When he faced her again, he surrendered to an
ungentlemanly impulse and said:
"Do you consider smoking worse than drinking
whiskey? Or selling it?"
Immediately he regretted the clumsy sarcasm.
Instead of anger, it produced a look of hurt.
She hid it by turning away.
"Though it's no affair of yours, I don't condone
my father's trade, nor-was Softly: "comnor his own
dependence on the product he sells."
She looked at him again. "But he is my father. My
Dorn's Daughter
brother Klaus is very young. Someone must look after
them."
"I didn't mean to imply-
"That my father's a drunkard? He is. Don't the
roughnecks in this camp know that by now?" He was too
embarrassed to answer. "You see, Mr. Boyle,
my father owns a small store in Grand Island.
General merchandise. The store is failing because
Papa's too fond of his whiskey to attend to its
management or care about his customers. And he'll
let no one help him, except in the most menial
way. When he chose to try to make some extra
money by temporarily closing the store,
fixing up the wagon, and driving all the way out here
to this hideous place, I had a choice. Let him
take Klaus and bring harm to himself or both of them
by provoking others with his brusque-ness-railroad
men are not so placid as farmer's wives, they
say-or come with them. I'm afraid Papa's only
the first of many who'll be following the tracks to take
advantage of men's vices. Now if that
satisfies your curiosity about my motives-?"
She spoke well, he was thinking. She was
uncommonly well educated, or more likely
self-taught.
"Miss Dorn, I didn't mean to pry-or
annoy you with my tactless remark about the whiskey."
"T"s all right. I just wanted you to know I was here
for the sake of people, not profits." The words carried an
odd undertone. Pain? He was at a loss to understand
why she'd revealed so much in a few sentences-unless
she'd contained a deep hurt for too long, and had
no one but a stranger with whom to share it.
That gave him a little better insight into her character. She
might be strong, but she wasn't marble. Not marble at
all, he thought with another covert glance at her
bosom.
He walked to the canvas partition and raised
it at the
divided center. Christian lay on a cot by the
rear wall, snoring lightly. His dark skin tended
to blend with the shadows in the unlit back section. But
the neat white bandage on his right calf was bright in the
lamplight falling over Michael's shoulder.
He was conscious of time ticking by. He couldn't
prolong the visit much more, though for some unfathomable
reason, to prolong it was exactly what he wanted.
He was conscious of Hannah Dorn's fragrance-the
clean, bracing odor of soap.
Finally he dropped the canvas and turned. She'd
returned to the stool. The open Bible rested on her
knees.
"Thank you," he said. "He looks fine."
A bob of her head. The wheat-colored hair
glinted. "I fixed him soup. He took every drop.
I also gave him half a dipper of Papa's
whiskey to help him sleep."
"Oh, then you're not averse to drinking?"
"Mr. Boyle, don't bait me. Alcohol
does have its purposes. Everything on earth has
God's purpose concealed somewhere within it if you search
hard enough." It was a quiet, rational-sounding
declaration. He tried to detect a touch
of the sanctimonious in it and failed.
He indicated the open book. "Are you searching
now?"
"I do so whenever I can." She touched the page. "I
was reading Second Chronicles."
He tried another smile. "I'm afraid my knowledge
of scripture has shrunk to some memorized
verses."
"Boyle's an Irish name. Are you Catholic?"
Damn, how direct she was! He'd never met
such a woman.
"Are you?"
She smiled, enjoying the sparring. "Lutheran."
"Well, I am a Catholic-or I used to be.
I've not been inside a church for a long time. Is
my specific religion of importance?"
"Why, yes, it is." "You dislike Catholics?
You're not alone." "I do not dislike Catholics.
I asked for another reason entirely. We're
isolated out here, among rough men. Those who
profess any faith at all belong together. For
mutual protection, wouldn't you say?"
She was still smiling. He did too. "I honestly
couldn't offer a worthwhile opinion. My
religion's like-like an object you carry out
of habit but comseldom use."
She met his gaze, then averted her eyes. He
detected a tinge of color above the collar of her
shirt. A point scored! Hannah Dorn
wasn't quite so holy as she pretended. She was
self-conscious with a man in her quarters.
"Well," she said, "at least you're honest. That's
a virtue."
He touched the pipe stem to his forehead. "Thank you
kindly for the compliment. I'll be going along- He was
totally unprepared for her next remark: "If
you're thirsty, I could warm some coffee." The pink
colored her throat again. He knew his earlier
guess had been right. She had her religion, but it
wasn't quite enough to counterbalance a certain loneliness.
He wasn't sure he wanted any further
involvement with such a curiously complex creature.
Torn, he hedged: "That would be very hospitable. But
it's growing late."
"Not that late. I'd like some coffee myself. And I do
want to attend to your hands. But outside. It's
less compromising." The hah* smile was at her
own expense. "I suspect I know what the men in
camp are saying about me. Any woman who
travels to a place like this-was
"You're wrong," he interrupted. He pointed to the
Bible. "They say you're devout." His hand moved
to indicate the Hawken. "And definitely not to be
interfered
370The Warriors
with. You wouldn't believe how much that combination
disappoints them."
She laughed; she had beautiful, regular teeth.
The effect was dazzling.
"I do know how to use the rifle. Both of the
Haw-kens are loaded with the extra charges of powder
hunters use to stop buffalo. I don't hold with
killing, but I'm willing to wound the first man who
tries anything improper. It's a matter of
principle."
"Oh, of course," he murmured, straight-faced.
"Mr. Boyle, you're laughing at me." "No,
ma'am! You're just not-not what I expected."
"Please don't tell me what you did expect,"
she teased, "or our acquaintance will probably come
to an abrupt end. I must admit I'm glad you
stopped by. I don't often get to talk to anyone
with some degree of education. It's a pleasure."
Her eyes sparkled in the lamplight. "Even though
you clearly have vices." "Now you're the one
who's laughing." "So I am. Forgive me.
Let's go out, shall we?" Again she smiled, as if
eager to establish at least a tentative friendship.
He raised the canvas to allow her to precede him.
She left the Hawken where it stood, carrying a
coffee pot in one hand and her Bible in the other. The
two objects struck him as representing a
contradiction. Warmth and reserve. But it was just that
contradiction that made her intriguing-and, somewhat
to his surprise, made him interested in knowing her
better.
His eye fastened on the swaying curve of her
buttocks. Delightful sight!
Or it was until caution intruded: Have a care,
Boyle. Don't broaden your interest to include
wanting to know her in the Biblical sense or she's
liable to blow your head off.
Wait. Not your head. She doesn't condone
killing. No
doubt she'd aim for a functional member more
closely allied with your vices.
Bet she'd hit it dead on, too.
The mere thought made him wince as he followed her from
the tent.
x
The Bible and the Knife
HANNAH DORN ASKED HIM to rekindle the
fire with fresh buffalo chips stored behind the tent.
As he went to fetch them, he recalled with amusement
the first evening he'd been sent to collect them on the
prairie.
He'd been at the railhead no more than two days.
Sean Murphy had soberly instructed him to go to a
nearby wallow and bring back any chips he found.
"Wallow chips are the very finest," Murphy had
assured him.
He'd returned with a huge load, carefully piled
half a dozen together, and touched a match to them.
He'd already been informed the chips ignited easily
and produced a virtually smokeless fire.
By the time he'd struck ten matches, Murphy was
laughing so hard tears came. Then he explained the
joke played on greenhorns. Bison rolled in
wallows to find relief from biting flies and
mosquitoes. The mud that dripped from their bodies
when they emerged formed unburnable but otherwise
perfect counterfeits of real chips containing partly
digested grass. Since that night, Michael had
sent several newcomers to similar wallows; it was a
sort of ritual of initiation.
He gathered the chips and walked back toward the
fire, asking himself why he was interested in the company
of Hannah Dorn when Julia was the only woman
he really cared about.
Perhaps I'm making it too complicated, he thought as
he rounded the corner of the tent. Hannah was placing
a stool near the ashes. I've been away from any
sort of female companionship a long time. There's
no sin in enjoying a bit of it-even though, for all of
this lady's good looks, she's a strong, spiky
sort.
He didn't quite believe that assessment, though.
Once or twice, Dorn's daughter had
inadvertently revealed a softness-a
vulnerability-beneath the shell of her religious
conviction. He saw evidence of it again now-a
noticeable uneasiness as she fidgeted with the lid of the
galvanized tin coffee pot, peered down inside,
replaced the lid, then lifted it again for another
doubtful glance.
"It's the last of the morning coffee, Mr. Boyle.
Very strong, I'm afraid."
"Couldn't be stronger than the poison they pour in the
dining car," he laughed, dumping the chips.
Hannah used a thong to tie the pot's
wire bail to a tripod improvised from three
rusty iron rods. She dug matches from her
pocket. Michael extended his. hand.
She passed him two matches. Their hands touched.
She inhaled softly at the unexpected contact.
He pulled his fingers back quickly. Damned if
I'm not as nervous as she!
The chips caught almost instantly. Soon scraps
of flame were tossing in the night breeze. He sat
down cross-legged near her stool. Out of sight beyond
Dorn's wagon, the workers had begun to sing again, this
time "The Vacant Chair," a slow, mournful war
ballad about a family's loss of a son. He
turned his head to listen as a soprano voice soared
above the rest. That would be Tom Ruffin, the lad from
Indiana. One by one the older men stopped singing.
Only the boy's voice was left-pure and almost
painfully sweet under the Nebraska stars.
"You were in it, then?"
Startled, he swung around. "What brought that
to mind?"
"The look on your face when you heard the song from the
war."
He tried to shrug as if the music raised no
memories.
"Yes, I was in it. The New York 69th of the
Irish Brigade. I was in it up until the
Wilderness, where I took a wound." A bitter
smile. "It was a struggle all the way. The
fighting was enough to scare twenty years off your life every
time you went in. And practically from the beginning, we
never had enough men. After Gettysburg comwe were only
in sharp action on the second day-we had just about
three hundred muskets left. We carried five
regimental flags, every one supposed to represent
something like a thousand soldiers. We tried to fight ten
times as hard, as if we were a true brigade; but it
was futile because so many had been lost along the way."
Studying him, she asked, "Were you proud of
fighting?"
"Proud of killing other Americans?"
Michael's hand strayed to his moustache. An index
finger smoothed the gold and gray hair as his eyes
fixed on the fire.
"No. I came to hate it."
She was pleased. "As all men should who keep the
commandments God gave Moses."
He grimaced. "I'm afraid my hatred of the war
only appeared after I broke that commandment a number
of times."
"How many?"
"Four that I saw for certain. Possibly more. I
preferred never to be too sure."
His head lifted.
"On the other hand, Miss Dorn, I'd like
to believe that when we were required to kill, we did
it for a just
cause."
"The Southern side thought the same."
"Admittedly."
"There should have been another way to settle the
differences."
He sighed. "A great many men more clever than I
tried to find one. For thirty years they tried. The
differences were too strong. Too fundamental-ah,
well. It's over."
But the memories weren't. Helpless, he was pulled
back to a July afternoon of billowing smoke and blaring
bugles. He heard again the incredible, earthshaking
bombardment from Seminary Ridge that had preceded the
slaughter of Pickett's infantrymen as they
advanced gallantly toward the clump of trees,
only to be shot down, blown down, stabbed down-the
highest cresting of the Southern tide, men called it.
Michael's brigade had watched it from
afar. His inner eye saw the gray-clad bodies
tumbling, singly and in great masses, as other
Irishmen-the Pennsylvania 69th of the
Philadelphia Brigade-blunted the assault
at Pickett's center.
He wrenched himself from the reverie.
"I do confess I took pride in our unit. The
Union commanders put special faith in the Irish
Brigade. Before an action, they'd ask, "Are the
green flags ready?"' The flags were decorated with
bright golden harps and sunbursts. A man could
usually see the gold even in the thickest smoke.
But by the end, there were too few marching behind the flags."
"Too few on both sides," Hannah agreed.
"I've read that altogether four hundred thousand were lost."
"I've heard more than half a million, and perhaps
the same number injured. No one will ever know for
certain. Both sides kept shamelessly poor
records. An officer I met in the hospital
told me some Confederate units were still listed on the
rolls when only six or eight from the original
complement were left."
She sensed his distaste for the subject and shifted to a
slightly different one:
"You said you belonged to a New York
regiment. Did you mean the state or the city?"
"The city."
"It's your home?"
"Was," he nodded. He pointed at the dark bulk
of the train. "That's my home now."
"Why did you come out here?"
He pondered the question. Should he be honest? Yes. But
not entirely.
"Several reasons. To find work. Earn money-was
"Was there no work in New York City?"
"I could have returned to the docks, I suppose.
I started there, as a longshoreman, when I was young."
She smiled. "Come, now. You're far from old."
"But getting there." His own smile faded. "When I
left the hospital, I wanted a particular sort
of work. No, better to say I needed it. Everywhere
in the East, there are crippled men. Stumbling along
the streets having left part of themselves in some
damn-some bloody field or forest. It's too
depressing a reminder of the price we paid to hold the
Union together.
"I've read they're recruiting cavalry
regiments for service against the Indians out here, and
because so few able-bodied men are left, the Army's
waiving many of its restrictions. The
Plains Army will accept one-armed fellows, or men
who've lost an eye. Men with a limp are welcome
in the cavalry since a limp won't impair their
riding. We'll be a nation of invalids for a generation.
I hoped to see less of that on the railroad.
"But there's caret more important reason I
came to the U-Pay. I decided I'd done my
share of destroying things. Property. Lives. I
wanted work to balance that. I wanted to build, not
tear down. The railroad's a worthy enterprise,
even though many say its controlled by schemers who
aren't above bribing Congressmen to get
The Bible and the Knife
it finished. But the heart of it's good, and
important. Unfortunately-was
A rueful smile.
-I haven't been entirely successful in my
effort to get away from fighting. I allowed myself to be
drawn into the scrape with Worthing. He deserved
what he got, but I'm ashamed I was the one to dish
it out."
She continued to study him without speaking. He'd
experienced a strange release in describing his
past. Unexpectedly, he found himself telling her
most of the rest:
"I also left the East because of personal problems.
Before the war, I was employed by a wealthy family.
The Kents."
The name produced no response.
"I was discharged-rather, I did a thing or two which made
it impossible for me ever to work for them again."
Such as telling Louis I would not cooperate in his
scheme to trade with the enemy.
Such as nearly raping his wife that very same night at
Kentland, then finding myself smitten with her-
He sat up straighter in an effort to clear his
mind. For a moment Julia's blue eyes seemed
to glow near Hannah Dorn's face. He
blinked. The vision vanished.
"No need for you to listen to any more, Miss Dorn.
It's a tedious story, full of mistakes and
regrettable lapses into many of those vices you
abhor."
"Why, Mr. Boyle, that almost sounds like an
insult." But she wasn't angry.
"Please, I don't mean to mock your faith. I
expect these times require more of it, not less. But
as I suggested inside, I- just don't have any of
my own."
"I don't believe you. Every man has
something he wants to achieve."
"Yes. To lay a mile of track a day."
"I mean some goal he wants to reach."
"To get the job done. To reach the hundredth
meridian, then see the Atlantic and the Pacific
joined by the rails."
"And that's all?"
He nodded.
"What will you do when the railroad's completed?"
"I've no idea."
"That's a sad and aimless way to go through life, Mr.
Boyle."
"In truth, it is. But it's better than making
war."
His brows knit together. He was unsettled at the
way this woman was drawing out confessions he'd never
intended to make.
She lifted the Bible from her lap, stood up, and
touched an index finger to the pot. She withdrew it
quickly; the coffee was hot enough.
"At least you're better off than Papa," she
said. "You have a goal to last you a while. Papa
never thinks beyond the next dipper from the barrel. We
had very high hopes when we came to America in
1850. I recall it well-I was
twelve when we made the passage in steerage. I
can still hear Mama talking before we left Hamburg
about how grand the future would be. Better by far than
what we were leaving."
She untied the thing with one hand and held the pot bail
with the other. "There are two china mugs on the washstand,
Mr. Boyle."
He walked into the tent, returned with the cups, and
let her pour. She held the pot by the bail and the
bottom, as if it weren't even warm.
Steam drifted from the mugs as she finished pouring and
bedded the pot in the ash of the disintegrating chips. She
accepted one of the mugs. Her eyelids dropped
briefly as their fingers accidentally touched a second
time.
He sat down again. "You came from Germany, you said."
She took her seat on the stool; stared into the mug.
Spoke softly:
"Papa was the last of fourteen brothers. Fourteen
men and not a girl among them to marry off. The
family brewery couldn't support him as well as
a wife. Eight of his brothers also had to make their
way in other kinds of work. It was Mama's savings
and Mama's insistence that brought us here from Hamburg.
We got as far as Cincinnati. Papa
tried the butcher trade. First working for a shop owner
to learn it, then opening a place of his own. But as a
young man, he'd gotten too fond of beer and spiritous
liquors. The habit was fixed. In Cincinnati
he abused his customers. Word soon got around. The
business failed. Papa managed to make a little on
the sale of the building, but it was nothing more than
luck."
"And your mother?"
"Mama wore herself out raising my brother Klaus.
He was born in '52. She also worked with the
Cincinnati Negro railroad, helping blacks
who'd escaped from Kentucky on their way
to Canada. One night six years ago, she and
two other women and I were giving food bundles
to three runaway boys on the Cincinnati
waterfront. We were set on by a farmer who'd rowed
across the river to recapture the boys. There was no
violence, just a good deal of rough talk. The farmer
did brandish a gun, however. And Mama's heart was
bad. She suffered a seizure and died that night."
"I'm sorry."
"It took Papa a year to recover, realize the
butcher shop had failed, and sell it. We came from
Cincinnati to Nebraska because Germans
had settled here too. Papa set up the store in
Grand Island, and within two or three months it was
Cincinnati all over again. He drove customers
away with his foul temper and his discourtesy."
"Yet you've stayed with him."
"I said it before-he's my father. And there's Klaus
to look after. The strong man doesn't pass by the
weak merely because the weak man's flawed. We're
all flawed."
Her free hand came to rest on the dark pebbled
cover of the Bible on her knees.
"Christ taught that."
With her head bowed, she drank, then resumed:
"Whatever happens to Papa, I'll stay in the
territory. Mama's belief in America was
justified, that much I've learned since I've
grown up. And perhaps it's not Papa's fault that he
isn't strong enough to take advantage of the
opportunity this country affords. Nebraska is a
good land. All it needs are good people who believe in
God and hard work. In a few years Grand Island
will have schools, and churches, and be as fine a town as
any other. I'll stay-even after Papa's gone."
"You do have a strong faith," Michael said, hoping
she understood it as a compliment.
She bobbed her head; self-effacement. He was
conscious again of how lovely she looked with her face
patterned by the firelight. But he still didn't quite know
what to make of her odd combination of piety and
vulnerability.
All at once Hannah set her mug between her
boots and opened the Bible.
"Mama taught me to believe in three things, Mr.
Boyle. Work. Cleanliness. And this book. I know
some people would laugh at me for saying that."
He raised a hand. "Not I. Truly, I do wish
I had things to believe in other than this infernal
railroad. The family I worked for had such things.
But they turned away from-never mind. Go on."
"There's little more to say-except one thing. I do
believe what's in these pages. And I believe this
country offers greater hope than any other land on
earth. America
will always be a blessed place if we abide by its
purpose, and this book."
He looked dubious: "At the moment, I wouldn't
classify the East as a blessed place. It's
poisoned with hatred."
"No more so than here. That fellow you fought- how is
he different from all those politicians
tearing at one another? Or the businessmen the papers
rail about? There's always wickedness in the world, Mr.
Boyle. But we can turn away from it and enjoy the
blessings of life here. We have guidance."
She patted the book. "I was reading something along
those very lines when you arrived. Second
Chronicles, chapter seven, verse fourteen-was
He was envious of the peace he saw on her face as
she quoted without looking up the passage:
was "If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble
themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from
their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, and will
forgive their sin, and will heal their land-" his
He wished he could believe her answer was the right
one-and easily implemented. Their eyes met for a
long moment. Then she succumbed to embarrassment.
Resting her palms on the book, she gazed down at
them. He was gripped by an impulse to stand, circle
the fire, and touch her.
He didn't. If she knew that a certain tension
below his belly was in part responsible for his feeling,
no doubt she'd run inside the tent for the Hawken-
What in the devil's happening to you, Michael
Boyle?
The answer was the same as before: a normal
reaction to a long period spent without speaking to a
woman more than casually.
But he tended to reject it. This woman was the one who
fascinated him.
THE tried not to deprecate her obvious faith in the
greater-than greater-than
words she'd quoted. But he couldn't help a touch of
cynicism:
"That's a laudable message. Perhaps I should copy
it and have it delivered to Captain Worthing."
"The man with whom you had the trouble?"
"Yes, have you met him?"
Distastefully: "No, but Klaus keeps me
informed. Worthing is one of Papa's better
customers. I hope you'll have no more to do with him."
Something prickled Michael's backbone.
 isn't up to me.
"I'd better not," he laughed. "General
Casement warned me. Any more brouhahas and I'll
probably be discharged."
"Let me say something, Mr. Boyle-and I beg
you not to be offended by it."
He was on guard. "Go ahead."
"I believe a man finds what he seeks, whether
it's trouble or peace."
"I fear it's not quite so simple."
"Not always. But in a general sense, yes."
"Well, it certainly hasn't worked in my case.
I look for peace but don't find it."
"Perhaps you haven't looked in the proper spot."
"If you mean the Bible, you're correct."
"You might try it sometime."
"I wish I could-believing in what I was doing, I
mean."
"That comes eventually. First there must be the intent."
He couldn't help feeling irked, and would have
expressed the feeling if she weren't so sincere.
He did make one admission:
"To a certain extent you're correct about finding
what you seek. I could have knuckled under to Worthing.
I refused."
"This is a difficult place. Among rough men,
you'll always face such choices."
"And you don't face them in Grand Island?"
"Not as many." She smiled. "That's one of the few
benefits of what people call the advance of
civilization. In any case, before I go to bed,
I'll pray Mr. Worthing won't force you into a
situation in which you'll be tempted to fight again. If you
do it will only make your unhappy feelings
that much stronger."
His mingled amusement and anger faded when he realized
she was utterly serious. Serious and concerned. He
didn't know what to say.
The singing was over. The cooling air carried a winy
tang. For no reason he could fully explain,
sitting quietly beside Hannah produced a sense
of calm he hadn't known in months.
The silence lengthened. He was acutely conscious of the
woman's femininity. His body kept responding in
a way she'd certainly find objectionable. He
decided he'd better leave.
He drained his coffee-cold now-and contrived to stand
up with a kind of twisting motion, so she wouldn't catch
a glimpse of his trousers.
"Miss Dorn, I thank you for the company, the
coffee, and the conversation."
"I enjoyed it, Mr. Boyle," she said with a little
nod. "You're a sensitive and literate man."
"No, only a rust-eater," he laughed. "Your
speech is finer. I'm wondering how you learned
English so well."
"Mama. She believed that since this was to be our
country, we should study the language, and its finest
usage. Papa wouldn't but I did. I
had no formal schooling here, mind, but I had great
men for teachers. Shakespeare. John Milton.
Wadsworth-was
She lifted the Bible. "And the translators who
worked for good King James."
She laid the book on the stool as she rose,
mercifully keeping her eyes on his face.
Boyle, you're behaving like the worst adolescent!
So he was. He couldn't help it.
Hannah Dorn walked around the dying fire. Her
stride was long; determined.
"Wait here one moment. I still have a bit of
doctoring to do."
Shortly she emerged from the tent with a small
milk-glass pot. The salve it contained had a
foul color and a tarry smell. But it proved
marvelously cooling as she spread it on his blistered
palms and burned thumb. She rubbed vigorously
until the salve was absorbed into the skin.
"Feels much better," he muttered, amazed anew
at the reaction the feel of her fingers produced.
"I'm glad." She extended her hand.
After a moment's hesitancy-his palm was still
slick-he clasped it. He squeezed a bit
harder than necessary. She didn't seem
to mind.
"I thank you again, Miss Dorn."
"The pleasure's been mine."
""Perhaps when Christian's awake tomorrow, I might
look in a second time?"
The gray-blue eyes held his. "I wish you
would." Then, with more animation: "A second visit
might even result in a halfway peaceful
Sunday with Papa. He's given up all hope of
gentlemen spending more than a moment speaking to me. The
Hawken and the Bible seem to get in the way. But
I-was
She was forcing herself; wanting to say something and not quite able.
At last she managed it:
"comI am not a shrew, I hope."
"On the contrary. Grand company! Sometime tomorrow,
then-perhaps late in the day?"
She teased again: "But there are no worship services
to keep you occupied in the morning, Mr. Boyle."
"There's the Platte for taking a bath. If you were
down wind of me you'd understand why I'll be occupied
for a while."
She laughed. "Fair enough."
He waved as he left, unconsciously beginning
to whistle "Corcoran To His Regiment"
without a single thought of the song's significance.
ii
He walked by the whiskey wagon. The customers had
departed. Klaus Dorn was slumped over the crate
with his plump cheek squashed against his forearms and the
Hawken on the ground. The whiskey merchant lay
against a wheel of his wagon, the backs of his hands in
the dirt, his mouth opening and closing. Spittle
trickled from the corner of his lips as he snored.
The dipper on its chain swayed slowly back and forth
in the wind, inches from his lolling head.
A sorry sight, Michael thought, wrinkling his
nose. Even at a distance he could smell the
liquor on Dorn. No wonder the girl
retreated to her Bible.
As he entered the darkened sleeping car and approached
his bunk, Sean Murphy whispered from the bed below
his.
"That you, Michael Boyle?"
"No, it's Worthing come to lie in wait."
"Don't jest," Murphy grumbled. "Greenup
ran into him earlier. He's staggering about with a face
dark as a rotten pudding. He's promising things."
Michael laid his churchwarden up on the bunk and
started to unbutton his shirt. "What
things?"
"Very ugly. You be on watch."
"I am."
Murphy sniffed. "Jaysus, you smell like a
pill shop!"
"Miss Dorn gave me some salve for my
blisters."
"Ah, yes, one of the lads did notice you
callin" on her."
"Merely to ask about Christian."
"Took you an hour or more to ask, did it?"
In the lowest bunk of the three, Liam O'Dey
stirred, then whined:
"Will you both shut your claps so a man can catch a
wink?"
"Up your arse, O'Dey," Murphy replied.
"Tomorrow's Sunday."
"I'm tuckered from Saturday!"
"Fiddle dee dee. You've an entire day
to relax and pursue your favorite activity, which
is complaining."
The thought of Sunday pleased Michael as he dragged
off his shirt and tossed it up beside his pipe. What
an odd, flinty woman was Hannah Dorn! A
rifle, a Bible, a tosspot father, a
witless brother-and loneliness. Yet he was
anticipating the day--anticipating seeing her again-as
he hadn't anticipated anything in a long while.
He'd have a bath, slick his hair, and drop
by early in the afternoon.
The prospect made him chuckle.
"Ah, that's a dirty laugh if ever I heard
one!" Murphy said. "What did the dear girl do
after she doctored you? Admit you to the privacy of
her quarters and give you a peek at her rosary?"
The last word was juicily lewd.
"She has no rosary, she's one of the Luther
crowd."
"Oh, God, don't mix with them!"
"Jesus and Mary, must we get filth an'
theology blabbered all night?" O'Dey grumbled,
thumping his mattress with his fist.
"Screw yourself if you're not too feeble, you sour
old man," Murphy said, then let go with a loud,
rasping fart to heighten the insult. O'Dey
exclaimed, "Agh!" and thumped the mattress a
few more times.
Again Murphy whispered, "I share but one thing
with O'Dey downstairs. Exhaustion. Good night
to you, Michael."
Michael's hands ached as he braced one against the
bunks and used the other to pull off his boots.
Undressing standing up was easier than doing it flat
on his back. All at once it struck him that no
thought of Julia Kent had crept into his mind for quite
a while.
"I said good night, Michael Boyle."
"Good night, Sean."
Hannah's eyes glimmered in his mind. Part of the
scriptural quote lingered too.
 my people seek my face-turn from their wicked
ways-1 will heal their land.
The second boot came off. He pushed his
trousers down and pulled one leg free. A strained
muscle in his thigh shot pain to his hip and calf.
Too bad he couldn't get Miss Dorn's
Biblical message to the Virginian. Worthing's
land, the South, still wanted a deal of healing. Instead,
it was receiving punishment. That was a big part of the man's
trouble, Michael was sure. On the other hand, he
might be letting his imagination run too free.
Perhaps Worthing had been sufficiently chastened by the
beating.
As he tossed boots and trousers to the bunk and
started to climb up, he decided it was
ridiculous to worry over the captain when he
wasn't at all sure the man would take action.
Though Murphy had mentioned threats, there was a vast
gulf between words and deeds.
At that exact moment he pulled himself so his head was
level with his blanket.
"Christ Jesus!" he breathed.

"Did you say something?" Murphy asked drowsily
from below.
388The Warriors
Stricken speechless, it took Michael a moment
to answer:
"Just blathering to myself."
His eyes remained riveted on the knife. A
carving knife pilfered from the kitchen, by the look of
it. He'd been unable to see it from the aisle below.
Someone must have come into the car earlier, while it was
empty. His blanket had been hacked to pieces;
left in tatters, with sections of Jephtha's letter
scattered about. The knife had been driven into the
mattress where Michael usually rested his head.
With a sweaty hand he pulled the knife loose and
laid it on his clothes at the foot of the bed. He was
shaking as he climbed up into the jumble of
slashed wool and cut paper, calling himself the worst
of fools for believing, even briefly, that Captain
Worthing's enmity would confine itself to threats.
He hoped Hannah Dorn wasn't praying too
hard. It was wasted effort. He would be forced to fight
again.
greater-than
I
At Lance Point
SLEEP CAME HARD that night. Michael lay
with his hands clasped beneath his head, struggling
to disconnect his thoughts from the significance of the
tangle of hacked blanket and ripped paper on which
he was trying to rest. Trying and failing.
Worthing was determined to finish it with him-and to torment
him with the realization that the reckoning would come
unexpectedly, at a time of his own choosing.
Michael's eye wandered to the pale rectangle of
Matthew Kent's drawing of the Havana milk
vendor. For some reason the drawing had been spared;
further proof, if he needed it, that Worthing
wasn't entirely rational. A man whose violence was
controlled would have destroyed everything in the bunk.
Worthing had cut and slashed with such fury that he'd
missed the picture. That worsened
Michael's depression.
As did further introspection about his own behavior
with Hannah Dorn."
He'd come whistling back to the car like some moonstruck
swain, delighted by the possibility of a friendship.
Now he had doubts about his breezy mood. Had it
been a trick of his mind? Perhaps he'd
unconsciously deceived himself about the whiskey
merchant's daughter. Perhaps he was using her as an
antidote for the altogether foolish longing for Louis"
wife.
Images of Julia's nude body slipped in and
out of his
mind as he tossed and wriggled in the ruins of the bed.
Images of a woman he could never have.
The uncontrollable desire humiliated him. It
also cheapened and insulted Hannah Dorn. She'd
treated with him in good faith, not knowing he wanted to be
with her to attempt to submerge his feelings for another
woman.
Ah, what a nasty, tangled mess it had all
become!
He must have lain awake three or four hours before
he dozed off, exhausted. Dreams of Worthing's
face haunted him through the night. When he
drifted out of sleep again shortly after ten on
Sunday morning, he felt no better.
Men were leaving their bunks one at a time, moving at
a leisurely pace, and keeping their voices
pitched low so as not to wake those still in bed. As
Michael stirred, Sean Murphy whispered his name
from below. He remained motionless and silent. He
didn't reply to Murphy's second whisper.
Or his third. Finally Murphy rose, pulled on
his clothes, and left the car.
As soon as Michael was sure he wouldn't be
disturbed, he unrolled an extra blanket
tucked at the foot of the bunk, stood on
Murphy's bed and spread the blanket carefully
to conceal the havoc of Worthing's knife. He'd
dispose of the cut cloth and shredded paper after dark.
The knife itself he wedged between the bunk frame and the
car wall; he'd get rid of it after dark, too.
He never even considered showing it to Murphy-or
reporting the incident to Casement.
Murphy hailed him as he entered the dining car.
Michael couldn't refuse to sit with his friend.
Greenup Williams arrived a moment later. It
registered on Michael that both men had dressed with
unusual care. Murphy wore his one
white shirt and an old satin cravat. Greenup
had donned his best work clothes and an ancient
emerald-colored velvet jacket, somewhat too
elegant to be owned by any rust-eater, white or
black.
At Lance Point
Michael assumed the jacket had been given
Greenup by someone for whom he'd once worked.
"I heard you tossin' most of the night again,"
Murphy said between swallows of coffee. He nudged
Michael. "Thoughts of Miss Dorn keep you
roused, did they?"
Michael shook his head.
Greenup laughed. "My, he's full of chatter
today."
"Merely in awe of the splendid plumage of you
fellows," Michael murmured.
"One of the boys who was shaving when I woke told
me Mr. Stackpole and his wagon arrived in the
middle of the night."
In response to Michael's blank look,
Murphy amplified:
"Mr. Stackpole is one of the lads in the
U-Pay Photographic Corpse."
"Corps," Michael corrected.
Murphy didn't take umbrage: "I needn't
know how to say it, just enjoy it. Greenup an' me,
we're going to have our pictures took. Spruce
up and join us."
Michael knew the railroad had a small number
of roving photographers whose wagons-traveling
darkrooms comfollowed the tracks to create a
pictorial record of the line's progress. Though
the bulky cameras were in fairly wide use,
Michael was still in awe of them. He found the science
of photography one of the miracles of the century.
"I'd have too sour a mug and spoil the
picture," he said with a shake of his head. When they
repeated their entreaties, he continued to say no.
Finally Murphy shrugged and gave up. Greenup
frowned-his first overt acknowledgement that he
recognized something was awry with Michael. By then
Michael was on his feet. He bid the two
goodbye, picked up a week-old Omaha paper
someone had left behind, and hurried back to the bunk
car to razor his face and
trim his moustache before going down to the river for a bath.
Much of the joy had been drained from the anticipated
excursion. He was fleeing again. Fleeing his confusion
over Julia and Hannah Dorn-and his
worry about Worthing.
Outside the sleeping car, he did stop a few
moments to observe Murphy, Greenup-and
O'Dey, who had evidently incorporated himself
into the portrait group without permission-fidgeting and
posing near the short boxy wagon shrouded with black
drapes. Inside, Mr. Stackpole could be heard
grumbling and swearing as he coated his glass
plates with whatever mysterious chemical mixture
caused an image to form on them. In the dirt behind the
wagon Michael noticed two padlocked wooden
boxes of a sort he'd seen once before. Finished
plates were kept in there after being chemically treated
to fix their images.
Finally, Mr. Stackpole emerged to deposit his
tripod on the ground. He returned for his large
camera with brass lens ring. Stackpole was
middle-aged and impatient, fussing loudly as he
fastened the camera to the tripod. A small crowd was
collecting. Quite a few men had dressed for
portraits.
"All right," Stackpole announced finally,
"let's have the first group."
He adjusted the black drape spread over the
camera, then waved at Murphy and his two
companions. "No, no, not there! Away from the shadow
of the car!"
"Join us, Michael," Murphy urged again.
"No, thank you, I-was All at once he spied
someone lounging up by the tender. Arms folded, the man
was facing the crowd and the photographer. Cigar
smoke trailed away from his mouth. He paid no
attention to the workers swarming past him; Sundays, the
engine and tender were uncoupled and turned over to those
among the crew who fancied themselves marks
men. But all Michael saw was the distant dark
blotch of one man's face.
Worthing's.
Watching him.
"No," he repeated, "I've need of a bath."
And I've need to get away because I've come over a
thousand miles and I haven't outrun Julia, or
the fighting. I wonder if I ever will.
"Come on," Greenup said to him. "It'll only
take a min-was
"A bath, and that's that!"
The severity of Michael's tone brought a frown
to Murphy's face. "Lad, what backslash on
earth's wrong with you this morning?"
"In place, in place!" Stackpole
interrupted, manhandling O'Dey and Greenup to the
spot he'd chosen. "I have a great many exposures
to make while the light's good."
"Michael?" Murphy repeated.
"No!" Michael shouted, so loudly Murphy
looked hurt. Michael spun away.
With the newspaper tucked under his arm, he walked
rapidly toward the end of the track. But in his mind
he was running. There was no escape. None,
anywhere.
That truth rode his shoulder like an invisible
hobgoblin as he cut across the tracks and quickened his
step, fleeing toward the bank of the Platte.

He walked almost a mile through knee-high buffalo
grass on the north bank of the river. Osceola's
whistle shrilled twice-a final summons to those who
meant to go chugging east along the line, clinging to the
tender, pilot, and running boards while they pinked
at any buffalo in sight.
The sky was a muted blue, lightly hazed by thin
clouds. A moderate wind blew out of the northwest,
setting the long grass and patches of bright red
wildflowers to rippling. Michael was conscious of the
morning's surpassing loveliness. It
eased his tension a little. He plucked one of the
wildflowers and stuck it in the pocket of his shirt.
The poppy bobbed in a jaunty way as he tramped
along the bank.
The prospect of visiting Dora's tent again was
palling on more than one count. If he went to call
on Christian and the woman, he'd be forced to speak
politely to the thick-witted German. And he was in
no mood to be polite. The memory of Julia
had spoiled his happy feelings of the preceding evening.
What compounded his confusion was a new admission that, in
spite of Julia, he did have a certain persistent
desire to see Hannah Dora again. She was
attractive; intriguing in an odd way. A
deep sort, that was the term for it.
Then he admitted another reason for his interest; one
which surprised him. Though he didn't consider himself
a religious man, he'd been stirred by some of her
remarks last night.
He actually wished she were right. Wished solutions
to problems were as simple as she made them out to be.
What a blessing it would be if something so direct as a
return to the kind of Christian behavior
described in her Bible could indeed heal the country,
tame the violence that erupted even at the
reasonably well-ordered railhead, and overcome
the widespread hate and corruption Jephtha's
long letter had described. Although Amanda Kent had
never been a practitioner of formal religion, her
faith in certain principles reminded him of
Hannah Dora-and of his own woeful lack of
convictions.
1 am a Kent now, he reminded himself. still had
better get to work and find something to believe in.
Something to work for again-
The railroad was no longer quite enough. Especially
"not since he'd realized he had fled to it because it
promised escape.
Which he hadn't found-
That brought him straight back to Worthing.
Caught up in his thoughts, he found himself at the edge
of a grassless patch where half a dozen small
cones of earth had been clawed out of the ground to form a
village of what more experienced men on the
U-Pay called prairie dogs. One of the
curious, popeyed little creatures was sitting bolt
upright in its hole, fore-claws raised, and
quivering. It saw or at least sensed his presence and
plummeted out of sight.
Michael carefully skirted the burrows so
as not to disturb them. He returned the wave of a
group of naked men splashing and wringing out laundry in
the shallows to his left. He kept walking. He
wanted privacy; wanted to be a good distance from
fellow workers who might be anxious for conversation.
A rich, loamy smell rose from the sun-drenched
earth. Clouds of huge grasshoppers buzzed near
him. The land here was slightly more rolling. Ahead, a
line of low hills made it impossible to see the far
western horizon.
He stopped short of the hills and glanced back. The
nearest bathers were a good half mile distant. He
tossed the newspaper down and pulled a lump of
yellow soap from his pocket. After tugging off his
boots, he peeled away every scrap of clothing.
He flung the garments among the reeds at the
river's edge, enjoying the feel of the sun on his bare
spine and buttocks. He crouched in the shallow
water and began to soap the pieces of clothing.
One by one he rinsed them and laid them on the bank
to dry. He flipped the soap after them and returned
to the muddy river with the paper.
He got to his knees, then stretched prone in the
tepid water. It barely covered the lower half of
his body. With
his head up and his elbows in the mud, he studied a
moving blur-bison-far in the south beyond two tilted,
hair-covered telegraph poles. The wind blew
puffs of dust from the nits of the emigrant trail.
He turned to the paper to focus his mind on something
other than personal problems. The leading story was a
report on one of the featured speeches at the
National Union convention in Philadelphia in the
middle of the current month.
In "64, Lincoln and Johnson had run under the
National Union banner. The President was again
attempting to use it to form a coalition of
Democrats and moderate Republicans opposed
to the radicals. Republican Congressman
Henry Raymond, founder and editor of The New
York Times, had delivered the speech quoted-and
done so at some risk to his career, the paper
observed. As soon as the cheers of the audience faded
and Raymond's remarks were reported to Washington,
the capital began to stir with rumors that the
traitorous Raymond would be removed from national
chairmanship of the Republican party.
But evidently he'd been willing to accept that
risk. In Philadelphia, Raymond had
unequivocally supported the views of
President Johnson. He'd declared that,
constitutionally, only the individual states could
establish qualifications for the franchise; that the
Southern states had never seceded and therefore had to be
represented in Congress; and that the Fourteenth
Amendment, worthy though it was, couldn't be
ratified except by two-thirds of all the
states-which included those formerly in rebellion.
According to the account, Raymond's speech had been no
anti-Negro diatribe; not even a disguised one.
The Times editor had declared slavery dead for all
time and called for equal protection of the rights and
property of every person, regardless of race.
But if Jephtha's letter was accurate, Michael
mused,
not even Raymond's sentiments about human rights would
appease the radicals. Whether right or wrong about the
Constitution, Johnson was flying in the face of
important segments of public opinion. It had
not gone down well early in the year when the
President had confronted the noted black
abolitionist, Douglass, at the White House, and
calmly advised him that, in addition to violating the
Constitution, immediate Negro suffrage would unleash a
race war.
Michael was still unable to decide whether Johnson was
courageously stating the truth, then and now, or
revealing a prejudice against blacks. The
article, however, only reinforced his disheartening
feeling that Jephtha was correct about the ferocity of the
new political war being waged by men not the least
interested in the counsel of Miss Hannah
Dora's Bible.
Somewhat more enjoyable was a reprint of a piece by an
eastern journalist named Bell. He had visited
the railhead a few weeks earlier, and written a
description of the track-laying operation. Its
accuracy was pleasantly surprising, and its
conclusion rhapsodic:
It is a grand "anvil chorus" that those sturdy
sledges are playing across the plains. It is in a
triple time, three strokes to the spike. There are
ten spikes to a rail, 400 rails to a mile,
1,800 miles to San Francisco
com21,000,000 times are those sledges to be swung;
21,000,000 times are they to come down with their sharp
punctuation before the great work of modern America is
complete.
"Twenty-one million times, is that a fact?"
Michael murmured. Impressive-though
he couldn't swallow the notion that the "anvil chorus"
was grand. Its performance was grueling, prosaic,
noisy-and full of sour notes such as the outburst
of a Leonidas Worthing. But
at least reporters were beginning to write a few
favorable items about the U-Pay.
A hail startled him. He rolled over. Saw
towheaded Tom Ruffin approaching briskly along
the bank, a look of concentration on his face and a
thick piece of cottonwood in his right hand.
"Good morning, Tom," Michael called back.
"Heard you singing last night. Splendid!"
The boy stopped. "Thank you, Mr. Boyle."
Michael waved a wet hand at the grass Ruffin was
studying:
"Lose something?"
"No, sir. Hunting a fool hen-or whatever you
call it."
"I think the correct name is grouse, or maybe
partridge. Not sure. But I haven't seen any."
"General Jack told me they were mighty
delicious roasted. And so dumb you could walk up and
brain "em with a stick."
"So I've heard. Guess they deserve to be
called fool hens."
The boy shielded his eyes and peered at the low
hills ahead. "Might be some up that way." He
waved and hurried on.
Michael rolled back onto his belly, forgetting
Ruffin for ten minutes. Then, abruptly, a
yelp-almost like an animal's bark-drifted from behind the
hills where the boy had vanished.
He paid little attention until he heard the cry a
second time. It was high-pitched and quickly muffled.
Michael raised his head. Not an animal at
all, he realized. It sounded like Ruffin-in some
kind of difficulty. Perhaps the boy had stumbled into a
burrow and wrenched his leg.
He strode up the bank, wiped water from his legs
and tugged on his trousers. Barefoot and bare-chested,
he went running to the crest of the first hill.
And stopped, open-mouthed. In an instant, his heart
was beating with frantic speed.

Evidently they'd come from the west. They must have ridden
their large-headed, thin-legged calicos-the small but
sturdy brown, bay, and white ponies Irishmen
called piebalds-all but silently to the low place
behind the screen of hills. He had an impression of
considerable numbers of riders-thirty at
least, every one of them armed with bows and decorated hide
shields. Every one of them was watching him.
Most of them appeared quite large in relation to their
mounts. That meant Cheyenne, didn't it? He'd
been told the Cheyenne were, on the average,
taller than the Sioux. Out in front of the rest, a
paunchy yet powerful-looking warrior of about forty
held Tom Ruffin under his left arm as if the boy
were an empty meal sack.
The boy's heels hung down, kicking and making the
warrior's calico skittish. The boy was
prevented from crying out by the brown left hand clamped
like a claw over his face. The Indian's right hand
held a fierce-looking bow horizontally. The
godawful weapon was eight feet long, at least-
And it was more than a bow, Michael saw suddenly.
It had a pointed iron head. The head pressed the
side of young Ruffin's neck. Wind fluttered the
feathers decorating the bow-lance.
Michael stood silent and stunned in the blowing
buffalo grass, his frightened gaze taking in the dark
cheeks; the nut-colored eyes; the hands gripping
bows and shields; the animal-skin shirts with long
twisted strands of hair knotted in the fringing.
Scalp locks taken from their enemies-his
As he glanced from face, to expressionless face, he
found no friendliness. He shivered, all but certain
several of the motionless horsemen were ready to reach for
arrows in quivers slung over their backs. He
knew that if he bolted to sound an alarm he'd be
killed before he ran six steps,
And the nearest workers were half a mile away. Very
faintly, he heard their shouts and splashing.
So, he thought with a mixture of terror and sadness, it
seems I've found another enemy.
And another war.
Hunter's Blood
SOME THIRTY MILES southeast of the railhead
on a simmering afternoon in the same month, a handsome,
twenty-six-year-old Oglala Sioux and his white
companion found what they had been seeking for the better
part of a week.
The Sioux, whom the white man called Kola,
knew the search was over when his friend came scrambling
down the side of the ravine to the dry wash where Kola
had been told to wait with the rickety wagon. Two
mules were hitched to the wagon. The wiry buffalo
pony that was their common property was tied to the
tailgate.
From the expression on his friend's face,
Kola suspected the find was a good one. The young
white man's dark eyes sparkled when the sun touched
them beneath the brim of his low-crowned plainsman's
hat. Like nearly everything else the partners owned, the
hat had been stolen.
As always, the sight of the white man stirred a
profound, almost religious feeling of affection within the
Sioux. Only a few of the white's quirks
bothered Kola. One was altogether minor, and by now almost
amusing.
Six months earlier, the white man had found the
Sioux brave half dead, beaten in most
uncharacteristic fashion by the husband of a woman named
Sweet Summer. In his pain, the young Sioux had
tried to thank his benefactor. Again and again he'd
pointed alternately to
the white man and then to himself while repeating the word
kola to indicate each was now a special friend to the
other. The Sioux had had a regular kola during his
boyhood years-Lively Cub, who'd taken the
name Brave Horse after counting his first coups.
Although the white man soon came to understand what kola
meant in a general sense, he took a fancy to the
word. He preferred it to the Sioux's adult name,
Clever Hunter.
"Kola, we hit some luck. There's a small
herd lying down with their curls, right up yonder."
One of the white man's grease-stained buckskin
gauntlets lifted toward the run of the wash.
"How many, Joseph?" Kola asked in the badly
accented English he'd learned hanging around the fort.
"Eighteen, twenty-was Joseph brushed a
pestiferous fly from the long fair hair hanging over
the back of his collarless flannel shirt.
Suspenders held up his threadbare trousers. But his
boots were sturdy.
"Couple of calves, too," Joseph added.
"We'll let them go."
Kola shared his friend's happiness with a smile.
Joseph was five or six years Kola's
junior, but seemed older. He was lean, strong and,
most importantly, trustworthy. At least he
had never proved himself otherwise during their
half-year association.
If Joseph tended to be somewhat more reckless than
a Sioux, that was a peculiarity of his white
temperament. Kola did not question it too deeply.
The saving of his life by Joseph had been a sending
of the gods. Wakan. Holy. Therefore an event of
great meaning for the future. Shortly after their
meeting, a night vision had confirmed it.
Occasionally Kola was disturbed by the pitiless set of
Joseph's mouth when he fired one of their weapons.
The Sioux killed to eat, and slew their enemies
only when absolutely necessary. For honor,
pleasure-and the
preservation of tribal manpower-they preferred counting
coup instead.
But Joseph was his kola. For that reason, and another
even more compelling, the Sioux brave never spoke about
disturbing aspects of his friend's behavior. The
reason was Kola's certainty that Joseph was
guided by his own inner voice.
Every Sioux heeded this most sacred and mysterious of
all instructors. It told him where he must go, and
how he must behave. It sometimes spoke when a man
was awake, but more often it spoke through dreams.
Even the winkle, the target of so many warrior
jests, did no more than follow the promptings of his
inner voice when, as a boy, he chose to don
women's clothing and face paint for the rest of his
life. Thus every winkte-and they were numerous-was
revered as well as scorned. A winkte was often
asked to name a newborn so the child would never suffer
sickness, for instance. Almost without exception,
the inner voice of a human being was wakan.
So Kola believed that in all things, Joseph was
only obeying the inner voice Kola would never hear,
just as Joseph would never hear his. The belief
made Kola forgiving of behavior he might
otherwise have questioned.
The Sioux, a dark, supple young man wearing only
a buffalo skin breechclout and moccasins with bull
rawhide soles, glanced at the scorching sun which
appeared to be sitting on the rim of the gully. The
sun's glare threw the outline of his large sharp
nose across one side of his face and created tiny
shadows beside the two puckered scars in the hard flesh
above his nipples. At eighteen he had committed
himself to the religious frenzy of the gazing-at-the-sun
dance, stamping and reeling for hours around the sacred
pole until his zeal gave him strength to mortify
his own flesh. The wooden skewers inserted under his
skin by the shaman had torn free and fallen,
bloody at the ends of the braided ropes
attached to the pole. The twin scars were testimony
to his courage.
The sun was a fearful and sacred thing to the Indian;
another tangible sign of the presence of. Wakan
Tanka-the Great Mystery, the driving force
and spirit of life which was in every place, every person, and every
occurrence, though in ways not always discernible. This
afternoon, however, the sun had a more practical
significance:
"The time is late, Joseph. The buffalo will
move soon to the night bedding place."
"Or find a larger herd," Joseph nodded.
Kola had taught him that, in August, when the
running season began and the bulls and cows grew
impatient to breed, the animals tended to gather and
migrate together in huge numbers-a thousand, two
thousand-which made hunting more difficult. "We'll
get them before they do," the white man continued.
"I've already picked out the cow leading them."
Kola murmured a syllable to show the pleasure he
took from his friend's confidence. In the spring when they'd
first traveled together, Joseph had been unable
to distinguish a leader in a herd of massive bulls,
smaller cows, and then* calves. Out of
gratitude, Kola had taught him much. Kola
did not hate white men with the ferocity of some of his
race. He'd been around forts too long as a youth.
And he'd been cast out from his own tribal group because
of the wrath and influence, of Sweet Summer's
husband.
Joseph reached down to scratch his right leg just above
the boot where he hid his skinning knife. "There are
half a dozen bulls, the rest cows. Been through a
grass fire not too long ago. Hides look
burnt on the hindquarters where they've shed. Two
of the bulls and two of the cows must have had their eyes
ruined when they stampeded through the fire."
his
A scowl ridged Kola's brow: "Four of them do
not see?",
"Practically sure of it."
The Sioux digested that. It made what they were about
to do more difficult. The bison lacked good vision
even when they hadn't been injured. But they
possessed sharp senses of smell and hearing to offset
the lack. Blind buffalo-common on the
prairie-were even more alert to alien scents and
sounds.
"Is there a hiding place where the wind is right?"
"Some brush. I have it all laid out."
Joseph spoke in a quiet, pleasant voice,
slurring, and softening some of his words. Kola had
encountered a few whites who talked the same way.
Driving small herds of longhorn cattle, they
had ridden up from the "southern part of the land
mass Joseph had frequently tried to describe
for him, but whose immensity defied Kola's
imagination. He was also unable to form more than a
rudimentary mental picture of the fantastic
collections of structures Joseph called
cities, that the white man assured Kola were
plentiful beyond eastern rivers Kola had never seen.
A happy curve relieved the severity of
Joseph's mouth as he gestured to his companion:
"Let's unpack the guns."
A strong kola, this stranger who had fed and cared for
him until he could walk and function again. A kola
who handled white men's weapons well, although with a
strange, almost possessive fondness.
Kola tied the reins of the mules and clambered into the
rear of the wagon. He unwrapped the blanket and
removed the three loaded rifles, along with a hide
cartridge pouch. Kola noticed how perspiration
appeared on Joseph's upper lip and a smile
brightened his eyes at the sight of the trio of powerful
buffalo killers.
Conscious of the lateness of the hour, the two men still
exercised caution in climbing from the ravine and working
their way in a large semicircle to the brush from which
Joseph would attempt to force the small
herd into a stand. In fifteen minutes they were in
place, both kneeling, the buffalo guns laid out
side by side within easy reach of Joseph's right
hand.
The equipment for the hunt consisted of three single-shot
pieces: a rather battered Laidley-Whitney .50
caliber, and two fine Ballard .45's, all
three capable of accepting the 70-grain powder charge
required to bring down a rampaging bull. Kola
didn't know where Joseph had gotten any of the
buffalo killers. The white man was not talkative
on the subject, except to say-usually with one of
those mirthless smiles-that he wasn't the original
owner of any of the rifles. Kola, however, had shown
him how to use them on their proper targets.
The small herd rested about sixty yards away. The
immense bodies were half concealed by the windblown
grass. Great jaws moved slowly as the animals
chewed the regurgitated grasses they'd cropped
during their morning graze. Kola noted the tawny
hides of the two calves nestling next to their mothers.
Joseph wiped a gauntlet across his wet brow and
pointed. With a nod, Kola acknowledged and endorsed
Joseph's selection of the presumed leader. Both
the bulls and the cows had angry red
hindquarters. Their winter protection-long, shaggy
hair and thick, wool-like undercoats-had been shed or
rubbed away. On the flanks of the resting animals
Kola could easily discern scorch marks and large
sores. At close range he would have seen many more
sores; the bare hides attracted swarms of biting
insects during the summer months.
Joseph held out his right hand. Kola passed him the
first of the Ballards, then laid out extra
cartridges from the pouch. The success of a stand
depended not only on the witlessness of the buffalo but
upon the speed and accuracy with which the hunter singled out the
successive leaders.
Slowly, Joseph raised the Ballard to his
shoulder. There was no sound except the faint murmur
of the wind blowing from the direction of the herd.
Joseph's hands lost color as he took a
firmer grip and laid his cheek into sighting position.
All at once, in the ravine behind them, one of the
mules brayed.
Not loudly. But the sound was enough to bring the cow leader
to her feet.
The rest of the herd lumbered up. Kola watched
Joseph's mouth go white and his eyes flick
angrily toward the disastrous noise. Then
Kola heard another sound from the same direction.
The tinkle of bit metal-his He was almost
positive.
He had no time to think of who it might be. The herd
was starting to move. Joseph fired.
The lead cow bellowed, struck exactly where Kola
had taught Joseph to hit. Behind the last rib, the
point at which a bullet or an arrow would pierce and
destroy the air sacs white men called lungs.
Kola had not needed to teach Joseph how to shoot.
He was an unerring marksman.
The herd grew frantic as the cow teetered and
collapsed on her forefeet, shoulders heaving. A
blind bull swung toward the source of the shot, then
went plunging past the dying leader. Even nineteen
bison with two calves trailing set up a
formidable rumble in the ground.
Joseph never took his eyes from the running herd.
His tension was betrayed only by the sweat rivering down
his cheeks and neck. He thrust the Ballard to the
ground. Kola slapped the second one into his
palm. In seconds, Joseph was ready to fire.
But he held his shot while Kola swiftly and
expertly reloaded the first rifle. Joseph was
watching the fleeing herd. Letting them go far
enough. Fifty yards. Seventy-five-
backslash
Suddenly a lumbering cow separated from the rest,
veering north. The others followed. With the new leader
identified, Joseph fired. A cry of pain, and
she went down.
The buffalo kept running, widening the distance between
themselves and the hunters. Soon the animals would be out of
range of the Laidley-Whitney Joseph held
ready. But the pattern repeated itself. A new cow
charged to the front. Joseph dropped her with a
thunderous roar of the gun.
They waited. The critical moment-
A blind bull slowed and lowered his shaggy head.
A calf straggled to a stop.
A cow dashed on, then turned back.
After another few seconds, the entire herd,
baffled by the loss of three leaders in quick succession,
came to a halt. It was the classic stand every hunter
hoped for if his timing and his luck were good.
A smile curled Joseph's mouth. He swabbed
the filthy cuff of his shirt across his forehead. Then,
with barely a sound, he climbed to his feet.
"It was well done, Joseph," Kola whispered as
he finished loading the
Laidley-Whitney. There was genuine admiration in
his voice.
"Because I had a fine teacher. Now we can take our
time. You'll have a nice feast tonight."
Kola could practically taste the savory brain and
small intestine that would be left after the work of
slaughtering. His mouth watered, and he thanked the
holy spirits for bringing him into the presence of this white
man. With a merry glint in his eye, he fell into the
Hunter's Blood
routine of loading and passing the buffalo guns
to Joseph, who simply stood in place and shot the
stupefied buffalo one by one.
Shadows lengthened on the baking prairie. The wind
soon stank of blood and the contents of emptied
intestines comto Kola the sweetest aroma on earth.
As the last cow dropped and the forlorn calves wandered
around the corpses searching for their mothers, the Sioux
reminded himself that before he and Joseph moved north
to the fire road, he must cut out and scatter the
hearts of the dead animals so the herd would regenerate
itself.
The echoes of the last shot went rolling away into the
sullen red haze along the western horizon.
Joseph relaxed, squatted down, disand
exhaled loudly. He laid the second Ballard
on the ground.
"Well, my friend, there's the stake that'll keep us
alive come winter."
Kola glanced at the dead buffalo. He was aware
of the increasing slaughter of the herds upon which his people
depended for food, clothing, shelter, horse gear,
weaponry, religious objects-even the
hair-stuffed calfskin balls and netted hoops the
children used in their games. No useful portion of the
animal was ignored. Yet for a dozen summers and
more, white hunters had been slaying buffalo in
enormous numbers, and wasting most of the precious
parts. Now here he was, doing the same. He
wouldn't have done so except for the promptings of his inner
voice which had told him he was destined to ride with
Joseph. But as he eyed the dead animals he
couldn't keep a touch a disapproval from his voice:
"We will sell all of them?"
"Yes. All."
"Keep nothing for ourselves?"
"Kola, we can buy shirts cheaper than we can skin
and sew them. We'll sell off the hindquarters to the
Union Pacific at a dime a pound, just the way
that fellow
Cody's doing down south on the line's other
branch. Further east, we should net a dollar and a
quarter for every hide, two bits for every tongue. The people
back east want fine quality lap robes and
delicacies for dinner. If we don't supply
them, others will. We'll have a stake and some profit
left over-wait."
Kola saw Joseph's eyes dart past his
shoulder. Back toward the rim of the ravine. He
knew it must have been a horse he'd heard, because
Joseph's eyes were wide as he grabbed for the
Laidley-Whitney.
"No!" someone shouted. A loud, rough voice.
"You're covered."
Joseph's fingertips hovered an inch from the buffalo
gun. Slowly he withdrew his hand. His lips barely
moved:
"Three of them. Where in the hell did they come from?"
"Nothing personal, y'know," the harsh voice
called. "We just want those buffalo. Touch the
guns and we'll blow you down."
in
Joseph surrendered to the thieves without protest.
Their leader announced his terms: They would relieve
Joseph and Kola of the wagon, the dead
buffalo, and the pony, leaving only the mules.
Joseph accepted the statements with a resigned
shrug. He even agreed to enjoy the hospitality
of a cook fire laid at the rim of the ravine by the
trio of tattered, foul-smelling white men. When
Kola started to protest, Joseph laid a hand on
his arm.
"Got to eat, don't we? Might as well be their
food as
ours."
Kola felt betrayed. He had never seen his friend so
resigned-or so uncaring. By the time darkness fell.
Joseph and the three other whites were seated around a
chip fire in the cooling air-exactly as if they were
longtime acquaintances.
To show his pique, Kola squatted several yards
away. He was still astonished at the way Joseph
had given up their guns and the animals whose sale would
have kept them sheltered and fed when the snows drifted
on the plains.
Sullen, Kola watched Joseph amiably
accept a cup of coffee and a tin plate of beans from
the leader of the thieves, a revolver-toting fellow
with a cocked eye, a long, untrimmed gray beard,
a gray military overcoat that reached below
his knees, and a loaf-crowned hat with a five-pointed
star cut out of the felt just above the greasy band.
"Thank you," Joseph said as he took the plate.
Down in the ravine, the horses belonging to the thieves
stamped and fretted. "I'll need something with which
to eat."
"Use your hands," the leader smiled from directly
across the fire. "I don't think it would be prudent
to lend you a knife."
Kola frowned, trying to grasp an elusive thought
hovering in his mind. He couldn't.
Joseph's eyes lingered on the leader's
weather-beaten face. The leader was the only one of the
trio who exhibited any sign of strength or character.
The thief seated on Joseph's left was a shivering
boy of seventeen or eighteen. He wore a forage
cap, a sweat-stained shirt, a blue neck
bandana, and a bolstered revolver that looked much too
large for his frail, nervous hands.
The thief guarding Joseph's right was a stubby man
in a ripped blue coat. A gold ring shone in the
pierced lobe of his left ear. Quietly, he
began singing to himself:
"Oh bury me not in the deep, deep sea, "Where
the dark blue waves "Will roll over
me-was
"No chanteys, Darlington," the leader said. "If
you're going to sing that song, use the prairie words.
You keep forgetting you're a landsman now."
"Not by choice, mate." Darlington concentrated on
his beans.
The leader shook his head. "Sorry excuses for
hands, aren't they?"
Joseph didn't reply. The man with the earring
seemed irritated. He limited his protest to a
glance. The leader added, "A man takes what he
must."
"Including another man's kill," Joseph
remarked with a frosty smile. "I'm sorry to say
I don't consider than an honorable action,
mister-?"
"Major," the older man broke in. "Major
T. T. Cut-right."
"Southern, aren't you?"
"Yes. I judge the same from your voice. were you
in the war?"
Joseph's lids screened his eyes a moment.
Kola thought he saw something secretive glimmer
there. But he immediately lost interest. He was still
outraged by Joseph's cowardly
acquiescence to the demands of the thieves who had ridden
up behind them at precisely the wrong moment. As
soon as the men were gone, he would separate from his
companion. He thought he'd gotten to know him since
the spring grass greened. Now he was discovering he
hadn't. And Joseph's inner voice had
abruptly turned him in a new, unacceptable
direction.
"Last with General Hood," Joseph nodded in
reply. "You?"
Cutright wiped bean juice from his beard with the sleeve
of his gray overcoat. "I saw service, but I'd
prefer not to say where. There was an unfortunate
incident."
"What happened?"
"My commander was yellow. When he ordered a re
treat, he took a ball in the back of his head.
I was accused."
Joseph said nothing. Cutright laid his plate
aside; reached for his coffee. "You haven't told
me your name, sir."
"Kingston. Joseph Kingston."
Cutright sat up straight. "Kingston?"
"That's right. Something wrong?"
"Not exactly wrong, but-was Cutright
looked a bit more wary. "I come from near Fort
Worth. I heard of a Joseph Kingston who shot
a crooked monte dealer there last winter, then
murdered a peace officer who came to arrest him. That
Mr. Kingston fled before he could be apprehended.
There's a bounty on his head. Two hundred
dollars."
Joseph's face took on a curious, stony
quality. "I've never been in Fort Worth.
Coincidence, undoubtedly."
Cutright uttered a short, wry laugh.
"Undoubtedly."
Kola stared at his companion, suddenly struck
by something he'd forgotten. It had been stirring in his
mind ever since Cutright's reference to a knife. The
thieves had taken the three buffalo rifles to add
to their own stock of two. But they'd only subjected
Joseph to a cursory visual search. They'd
completely overlooked the hidden skinning knife.
All at once Kola grew warm. Could the
undiscovered knife be the reason for Joseph's
apparent cooperation? He fervently hoped so.
Despite his bare flesh-he hadn't been permitted
to go to the wagon for his shirt and leggings-his entire
body felt hot.
Let Joseph be tricking them, he prayed. The
meeting when he found me was wakan, and the dream afterward
told me I would be his kola, and he mine, till the
end of our lives.
"The wagon down in the wash belongs to you?" Cutright
inquired.
"I'm the present owner, yes."
Cutright's cocked eye glowed as he inclined his head
in a skeptical way. "Not quite the same thing."
Once more Joseph didn't answer.
"Your friend there. The Indian-was
"Call him what he is, please," Joseph
asked quietly. "An Oglala Sioux. His name
is Kola. It means special friend."
"Peculiar traveling companion for a white man."
Joseph shrugged again. "I found him on the
prairie up north of the Platte. He'd fancied
the wife of one of the leaders of an akicita
society in his tribe. I've learned Sioux
don't normally take offense when their wives
crawl into the blankets with another man. They just
throw the woman out of the tipi and cut off her
braids-oh, and once in a while her nose-and that's
the divorce. To do much more would give the woman more
importance than she deserves.
Apparently women don't count for much among the
Sioux. Did you know they're even sent to live in
special lodges when they bleed once a month?
According to Kola, the men believe a woman in her
cycle poisons a man's medicine and weapons."
Joseph drank a little coffee. "Put as I
say, most times a husband takes small notice
of infidelity. To do otherwise would be like making a
fuss over a dog pissing on the tipi. But there are
exceptions to everything. Sweet Summer's husband was
an exception. He not only divorced her, he
waylaid Kola and thrashed him half to death. I
came across him and nursed him back to good health. A
dream told him we should ride and hunt together.
Kola says the Sioux put great stock in
dreams."
"Well," the man with the earring growled, "hope he
ain't had too many dreams about sellin' off the
buffla to the railroad. Those dreams are at five
fathoms now, and don't you forget it."
Outright frowned. "You needn't act so sour, Darling
ton. Mr. Kingston's being sensible about his state of
affairs." To Joseph: "He ran the engine room
on a Federal cruiser during the war. He's
accustomed to bossing men around. But he
isn't accustomed to the courtesies of the plains.
Nor is Timmy there. Timmy's my wife's
nephew. These days a man running cattle only
gets the kind of help he can afford."
Joseph perked up. "Cattle?" He reached down
to scratch his right calf. The bearded Outright shifted
his hand toward his hollered revolver, but Joseph's
smile reassured him: "Just a louse."
He kept on scratching the right side of his calf.
"Damn, they're pesky! You were running cattle?"
"Fifty head," Cutright nodded, relaxing again.
"The most I could lay my hands on. Seems
everyone in Texas is scrambling for longhorns
to drive north. The restaurants and butcher shops
back east want all the beef they can get."
"I don't see any sign of a herd-was "No, you
don't." Cutright looked glum. "I lost them about
fifty miles south. They'd gone too long without
drinking, and we came across some damn alkali
water. I got my leader, an expensive steer
named Crump, started exactly right. If my luck
had held, he'd have stampeded them all right past the
stuff. But he broke a leg and they went for the water
before we could stop them." "The alkali water
poisoned them?" "Yes, sir, Mr.
Kingston, all but one. We've butchered and eaten it
since. I should have brought more men with me, but times are
hard. Rather than go home empty-handed, I'll now be
able to make a little money selling the buffalo to the
railroad. It's better than nothing."
"But it's also stealing."
Both Both Darlin Darlington and Cutri Cutright
scowled. "You're not going to get contention contentious
are you, Mr. Kingston Kingston?"
latter asked. "I've a wife and brood of six
back home. They're depending on me. A moment
ago, you seemed sensible about the realities of the
situation."
"I recognize the realities," Joseph
agreed. "I'm just disappointed in a former Confederate
officer's doing such a thing."
"Told you." The indifferent blinking of Cutright's
good eye put a furrow on Joseph's forehead.
"Hard times."
Joseph finally appeared to agree. One more weary
shrug only heightened Kola's confusion. Had he
been wrong about the skinning knife? If so, he was more
determined than ever to abandon his cowardly companion the
moment the gray-coated fellow and the others moved on.
Just then-unexpectedly-Joseph turned
to glance at him. In the guttering light of the fire his
dark eyes were oddly intense.
Kola pursed his lips, frowned, trying to signify
he didn't understand whatever Joseph wanted
to communicate. Joseph gave up. He turned
to Outright again.
"Wonder if I might have leave to stand?"
Outright chuckled. "Lice still troubling you?"
"Too much coffee's troubling me." He poked a
finger into his trousers above his groin. "I'll just
step over there." He bobbed his head toward Kola
and the starry dark behind him.
"AU right," Outright said. "Slowly, though."
He edged back the overcoat so he could reach the
butt of his revolver. Six inches to the right of his
knee lay the confiscated Laidley-Whitney.
Loaded, as Kola recalled.
Smiling, Joseph rose, faced left, took a
step, winced, and stopped directly behind the shivering
boy wearing the bandana. "Damn!" Joseph cried
again, crouching, and slapping his right calf as if another
louse had attacked.
Outright reached for his revolver but checked his hand when
he heard the whack of Joseph's palm. He
understood why Joseph had moved suddenly.
Seated directly between Joseph and Cutright, the
boy started to turn. Joseph didn't straighten.
His right hand dropped to his boot.
Cutright shouted: "Damn you, what-his Timmy, your
gun!"
The Texas boy juggled the coffee* cup from which
he'd been sipping and made an ineffectual grab
at his holster. Joseph moved with astonishing speed,
slipping the skinning knife out of his boot and slashing
a six inch gash in the boy's gun arm with a single
continuous stroke.
The boy shrieked and flopped forward, eyes glazing.
The contents of the cup splattered the fire and started it
hissing and smoking.
"Goddamn deceiving son of a bitch!" Cutright
screamed, the same instant Joseph yelled
Kola's name.
The cry and the jerk of Joseph's head was signal
enough. Overjoyed, Kola ran, leaped, and landed on
the white named Darlington. He grappled for
Darlington's drawn revolver. Joseph had already
launched himself straight across the smoking fire,
falling on Cutright with no concern for his feet being in
the scorching coals.
The impact jarred Cutright. The revolver
in his right hand thundered. Joseph jerked his head
aside, just in time to keep from being killed.
Darlington's revolver exploded. Kola felt a
rush of air near his shoulder as the bullet spent itself
in the dark. Darlington was no match for Kola's
strength and renewed faith. Kola clawed
Darlington's face with one hand, dug the nails of his
other into Darlington's wrist, and the revolver was
loose.
Kola threw it away and jumped up. He stomped
on Darlington's stomach. The man retched and
grabbed his
belly, rolling from side to side. Panting, Kola
swung around.
Joseph had gotten Cutright's revolver out of his
hand. He was standing with his left boot on the
Texan's chest.
Cutright's hands were raised. The palms shone with
sweat. Grimy fingers quivered. His good eye
focused on the revolver Joseph was aiming down
at him.
"Lord, Kingston, please don't-was
"Don't do what you planned to do to us?" Joseph's
mouth was so thin, it appeared to be no more than a
slit. "You don't think I believed your
story about letting us go? You said you have a family
near Fort Worth. And you'll want to do business up
this way again, I presume. You wouldn't want
Kola and me turning up to cite you for theft. You were
going to kill us before you left."
Cutright's popeyed silence was confession enough.
Kola crouched quickly beside the writhing Darlington. But
there was no danger. The man was in pain, talking
incoherently, and starting to weep.
Joseph remained with one boot on Cutright's
chest.
"You're not going to shoot me-?" Cutright breathed.
Kola burst out laughing. The Texan sounded like a
man beseeching the holy spirits. "You gave up too
quickly! You-you don't have the sand."
Joseph's smile was chilly. "I led you on,
Major. You thought I didn't have the sand. That was your
error and my advantage."
"You are the one from Fort Worth," Cutright wheezed.
"Got to be."
"The two-hundred-dollar bounty would have been a
nice extra profit for you."
"I swear, I didn't plan-was
"Shit. You murdered your commanding officer. Why should
I expect better treatment?"
Joseph steadied the revolver and blew a hole between
Cutright's eyes.
Before Cutright's body had stopped its violent
jerking, Joseph flung the revolver away, fie
picked up the Laidley-Whitney and motioned
Kola back. From across the cook fire, he aimed
at the screaming Darlington, who flopped over on his
stomach and frantically started to crawl.
The buffalo gun boomed. Darlington skidded three
feet forward, an immense hole torn through the
clothing covering his backbone. Even Kola, who was
accustomed to blood, averted his head.
Joseph laid the buffalo rifle beside Cutright's
revolver. He sighed.
"Dishonorable men deserve to be treated in kind.
Kola?"
The Sioux turned, momentarily frightened at the sight
of his companion standing on the other side of the fire.
Joseph resembled some demon risen from swirling
smoke and tiny, licking flames.
Truly, Kola thought, this is a warrior to be
feared more than any Sioux chieftain. He is so
feared, his own kind offer money for his body. This is
a great warrior indeed.
Kola couldn't tell whether his companion was
saddened by what had occurred, or took pleasure from
it. One moment Joseph's expression led Kola
to believe the young white man had enjoyed killing the
thieves. Then Kola thought he detected regret,
or at least uncertainty, as Joseph looked at
the moaning boy lying on his side with his head close
to the embers. The boy's hair was smouldering.
"Pull the boy out before he burns to death. That hair
stinks to hell."
Kola hurried to obey.
"Sit him up," Joseph instructed. "Slap him
some."
Joseph watched impassively as Kola propped
the boy up and smacked his face several times.
Groggy with pain, the boy finally opened his eyes.
He recognized Joseph and Kola; then saw the
bodies of his uncle and "Darlington.
"Oh, my Lord!" He sounded sick as he seized
his blood-soaked arm.
"No complaints," Joseph said. "You took your
chances when you threw in with those two. You'd have stood
by while they shot us. Probably even pulled a
trigger yourself. Stand up."
Aghast, the boy exclaimed, "I'm bleeding
to death!"
"Maybe. Maybe not. You'll find out after you've
walked twenty or thirty miles."
"I can't walk!"
Joseph shrugged. "Your choice. Pitch me the
knife, Kola."
"No, no, I'll go." The boy weaved to his
feet.
"South," Joseph instructed. "If I ever see
you north of the Republican River, you'll be dead
for sure."
Red seeped between the fingers with which the boy clutched his
arm. He glanced at Outright again, then blazed, "You
damn murderer! You could have left him alive!"
"Impossible."
"How can you kill like that?"
"I had excellent training, directed by Mr.
Jefferson Davis. After you kill one or two, the
others come easy. Now you better get out of here before
I change my mind."
"I'll remember your name, Kingston. Swear
to God. I'll remember it to the hour I die."
Joseph laughed. "Save yourself the trouble. By the time
you're planted, I'll have had a peck of names."
"Someone'll find you."
"Someone will find you, stone cold stiff, if
you don't start walking."
"I need food and water."
"No."
"At least a bandage!"
"All you get from me is a chance to save your conniving
hide. That's more than you deserve. Now walk!"
The boy started off, wincing with every laborious step.
"Wrong way!" Joseph barked. "That's south."
Like a sleepwalker, the boy stumbled in an erratic
half-circle and lurched in the right direction.
Joseph watched until he was lost on the dark
prairie.
Joseph jerked off his low-crowned hat and busily
fanned himself, drying sweat that shone like grease on his
forehead. The white man's next remark was intended
to be conversational but had a strained quality:
"Now we can go ahead and take the buffalo up to the
railhead. We're also three horses to the good.
I'd call it a passable day's work."
Saying that, he turned away. But not before he
astonished Kola with a sad, almost grief-stricken
glance. With his back toward the Sioux, he added:
"A man should know better than to do a dishonorable thing
like stealing another man's kill. He should know
better!"
There was no regret in the last few words. Only
anger.
Kola overcame the piercing fright produced
by Joseph's unexpected ferocity. He realized
again that he would never understand the man's unfathomable
nature. But outwardly-ah, outwardly, Joseph
was a kola of whom he could be eternally proud.
He let his awe and pride drive a yell of joy
out of his throat. He circled the fire, stood over
Cutright's body, and raised his clout, exposing his
genitals to the dead man's caret staring eyes-his
people's ultimate insult to a vanquished and
contemptible enemy.
Joseph walked back to his coffee cup and
picked it up. Before drinking he said in a casual
way:
"We don't need to waste time disposing of them. The
turkey buzzards will do it in a day or two.
Besides, they don't deserve decent burial."
He tossed his head back and drank. A spurt of
fire in the thinning smoke reddened the streak of white
hair that began at his hairline over his left brow
and tapered to a point at the back of his head.
Book Four Helton-Wheels
I
The Cheyenne
MICHAEL BOYLE had seldom experienced the
kind of consuming fright he felt during those first moments
when he stood rooted on the summit of the low hill,
trying to decide whether to run and attempt to warn the
railhead. It was worse than the fear he'd suffered
charging enemy lines with the Irish Brigade. At
least with the Brigade, there had been others around him
sharing the peril.
He was most conscious of the weapons arrayed against him.
The short hunting bows. The quivers bristling with
arrows. The knives. The war hatchets with shafts
wrapped in bright red cloth and metal heads, not
stone.
The knife blades and hatchet heads meant the
weapons were trade goods, factory made. The
Cheyenne-if that was indeed what they were-had either
bargained for them at forts or stolen them in raids.
He saw no revolvers or rifles. But he
understood Plains Indians owned few of those.
Firearms which the Indians did manage to acquire
were carefully guarded and used only on hunts or
important forays against enemy tribes. It was a
small, hopeful sign.
He licked at sweat on his upper lip.
The warriors remained motionless, watching. The
feathers in their sunlit black hair bobbed in the
breeze.
The Indian holding Ruffin-the one with the immense bare
belly-kept staring too. A hint of a smile
appeared on the man's thick-lipped mouth. But the
eight-foot bow-lance was rock steady. If
Michael responded wrongly, or acted
precipitously, the iron head would pierce
Ruffin's throat in an instant.
One by one, other details registered. On all the
calico ponies, plaited horsehair was looped
and knotted around the lower jaws to create both bit and
bridle from a single long strand. Quirts held
by muscular hands rested against naked thighs. The
quirts resembled miniature whips-three thongs of
rawhide attached to a carved round of wood heavy enough
to deal a man a crippling blow.
About two-thirds of the Indians rode bareback.
The rest, including Fatbelly, had hide
saddles, little more than beaded pads. The leader's
gear also included a blanket under the saddle, beaded
bright yellow and red. Fringes hung from each corner
of the square.
The big-bellied Indian bore scars on
his shoulders and had pendulous breasts. The scars were in
pairs. Michael recalled hearing a Paddy
describe rituals in which Plains Indians
pledged their lives to the protection of their people and the
annihilation of their foes-and shed blood in
self-mortification as proof of their intent. The
scars as well as the leader's air of authority said
he was the one with whom Michael had to deal.
Weary of Michael's hesitation, Fatbelly
gigged the lance head deeper into Tom Ruffin's
neck. A line of blood trickled. Ruffin's
legs thrashed. Above the clasping hand, the boy's
eyes pleaded with Michael.
Fatbelly raised his eyebrows. His forehead
creased like a wrinkled hide. The lift of the brows
asked an unmistakable question:
What will you do?
u
Michael had no idea-except that he'd decided
not to run and abandon Ruffin. In a voice as steady
as he could manage, he asked:
"Do you talk English?"
Half a dozen of the braves-all in their twenties-
snickered and whispered among themselves. One let out a
low but frightening whoop, then spat over the
ears of his pony. The fat-bellied Indian whipped
the lance to the right, then thrust it over his head. The young
men laughing at Michael fell silent. The
smirks disappeared.
Fatbelly grinned in a disarmingly friendly way.
Michael wasn't deceived. It would be foolish
to trust the Indian-or regard him as a weakling because
of his age, or his flabby breasts and stomach. The
rest of him looked hard. The act of raising the lance
had tightened huge muscles in his upper arm.
The Indian's smile grew wider, revealing brown
gums studded with broken teeth. He nodded in a
vigorous way.
"English," he said, garbling it so that it came out
Anglish. The thumb of the hand holding the lance
straightened, pointing at the Indian's chest.
"English!" There was an almost childlike quality
about the declaration.
When the Indian continued, he mauled the
pronunciation of nearly every word:
"I have traded at white forts. But we are not
Laramie Loafers-was
Some of the others understood and growled agreement.
"We do not come to bring war. We like black coffee that
is sweet. We want to see the fire
road you are making. No war, only see."
He widened his eyes, blinking several tunes. The
illustration almost made Michael laugh, not in
derision but genuine amusement. The fat-bellied
man almost resembled a small boy-except for that
bow-lance he'd quietly shifted back to Ruffin's
throat.
"We friends." It came out frans. "No war. Just
coffee." More blinking. "Just look."
Amusing as the Indian's enthusiastic declaration
was, Michael remained wary. He'd heard
tales of braves who had ridden up to a government
fort to trade with perfect cordiality one day, only
to return the next and launch a vicious attack.
They were unpredictable as the plains weather,
Casement claimed. So he didn't put much stock
in Fatbelly's assertions. Though his heart was
beating less rapidly, Michael kept a frown
on his face.
"Very well. If you're friendly-was
Fatbelly's nod was again impatient. "Friends.
Friends!"
"Then put the boy down."
The Indian cocked his head, acting baffled.
Michael suspected the man understood more
than he let on.
Michael resorted to gestures. A finger at the
boy, then at the buffalo grass.
"Down. Let him go. Don't hurt him."
The Indian pondered. Shook his head:
"You are many. We are few. We keep him till
we see the fire road and get coffee. Then we
let go. Is not wise * to believe all you whites
say. You say friends, then you caret turn many guns
against us."
Something ugly flickered in the man's eyes. His
smile disappeared.
"Two summers ago it was so when Black Kettle
camped at Sand Creek."
Michael winced; he knew the infamous reference.
In the autumn of '64, Indian raids in the
Colorado territory had resulted in the
organization of a Denver-based military unit of
six hundred white men. The men--mostly riffraff
--had been commanded by a fanatic
Army officer named Chivington, who also happened
to be an ordained Methodist minister. Chivington
led his men to a nearby Cheyenne encampment.
Though not responsible for the raids, the inhabitants
of the camp-Black Kettle's people-had
feared reprisal and sought sanctuary from rising
anti-Indian sentiment. The Army had proposed
Sand Creek as safe territory. Black
Kettle had moved there, even raising the Stars and
Stripes on a pole-and then he'd watched
Chivington's regiment of ruffians ride in. For
three or four hours, the whites had galloped
back and forth, smashing tipis and butchering close
to fifty braves, women, and children.
"I had a sister there," Fatbelly said.
"Sister?"
Michael nodded to signify comprehension.
"She never stole cows. Never cut talking
wires-was A stab of the lance toward the telegraph
poles across the Platte.
"comBut her hair was taken. This hair-was
The lance lifted to touch his head.
"This hair too."
He lowered the lance to his groin.
"It was held up in a large place for whites who
laughed."
Michael had no answer to satisfy the Indian's
anger. He knew scalps of Cheyenne children and the
pubic hair of Cheyenne women had indeed been
paraded on the stage of at least one Denver
theater following Chivington's raid.
Michael was no expert on the confused policies and
operations of the Army in the West. But he did know
officers assigned to the troubled territory during the
war had generally been incompetents. The best men had
been assigned to the Union forces pitted against the
Confederacy.
With men of poor quality in charge on the plains, it
was no wonder decisions were poor as well. Such men
didn't believe it necessary to locate and punish the
Indians actually responsible for a given act of
murder or arson. For effective control of what was
termed the Indian problem, punishment of any
Indian would do. Fatbelly's sister had
evidently been one of the innocents who suffered from such
witless retaliation.
"No," the Indian grumbled, tightening his hand over
Ruffin's purpling face. The boy's eyes
bulged. He looked ready to expire for lack of
breath. "We let this one go if we find no war.
We let go after we drink coffee!"
The finality of it convinced Michael he'd better
postpone further argument. He'd shaped a strategy
for handling the situation, but before he had a chance
to implement it, Fatbelly barked at him
again:
"Are you the fire-road boss?"
Michael shook his head. "I only lay track."
The Indian didn't understand.
"I work. Work" Michael flexed his hands.
Pantomimed lifting something. The Indian grunted.
"My name-was
Was that an unfamiliar word? Dry-lipped, he
began again:
T"
A finger to his chest.
"I am called Boyle."
He repeated it.
"Bile," Fatbelly nodded. "I am-was
A rush of gibberish. Michael kept shaking his
head. Finally the Indian went back to English.
"Guns Taken."
"Ah. Guns Taken," Michael's bobbing head
indicated his comprehension.
The Cheyenne's grin returned. "Took three
guns when I was ten summers. Three! From a white
fort. I rode away fleet as the wind before they could
close the gates and catch my pony. I was
honored and became
Guns Taken instead of Dog Barks, the
name I was given at the hour my mother bore me."
There was enormous pride in the statements and the broad
smile accompanying them. The innocence of the declaration
relieved Michael's anxiety a bit. Almost
made him like the fellow, in fact.
But it was dangerous to be lulled. Casement insisted
the Plains Indians were not the primitive
simpletons too many whites made them out to be.
The Sioux and Cheyenne could be cunning. And
volatile. "Three big guns!" the Indian
bellowed. Michael nodded hastily. "Yes, yes,
I understand." Evidently he hadn't acted
sufficiently impressed. His failure wiped the
smile from the Indian's face. Guns Taken
thrust his lance at Michael. "We go to the fire
road. Now." Knees pressing against his pony, the
warrior started forward. Michael held up his hands.
"Wait."
He pushed his palms toward the Indian. Guns
Taken's scowl deepened. Michael swallowed,
wondering whether the man would fling his lance.
"Let me go first," Michael told him, mixing
improvised pantomime with the words. "You stay here
while I go ahead-ahead-so there will be no angry
men. Let me speak to the boss of the fire
road. It may take me a little while, so don't
be alarmed. I promise to tell him you are not here for
war. Then he will make you welcome."
Guns Taken shook his head hard. Michael's
meaning was either unclear or the Cheyenne was again
pretending. Tense, Michael went through it twice
more, finally making the Indian understand he would precede
the party and take whatever time was required to assure
there was no trouble. He was not only concerned about Tom
Ruffin"s safety, but anxious for Jack
Casement to get the men at the railhead firmly under
control before
the Indians appeared. He hoped he was doing the right
thing.
Turning his pony, Guns Taken addressed the young
men in his band. The Cheyenne spoke a swift flow
of words Michael couldn't fathom. But gestures and
expressions left no doubt about some of the reactions:
Complaints. Angry protests. Guns Taken
silenced his braves with repeated shouts.
A couple of the Indians let Michael take the
brunt of their displeasure. The ferocity of their
glances made him shiver.
But Guns Taken was in command. Michael was again
encouraged when the big Indian walked his
pony forward three steps and gave a final nod.
"You go. The boy stays till the fire-road boss
says
come in."
"No. I want the boy." With both hands he
motioned to Ruffin, then the grass. "Let him down."
"You go! Boy stays." The dark eyes shone with a
sad cynicism. "Then there will be no guns fired
to greet us. If there are guns fired, Bile-was
The smile reappeared, but it had a terrifying lack
of humor. The Cheyenne pricked Tom Ruffin's
neck a second time.
"comthe boy is yours. Dead."
The bargain was clear. Jesus, Michael thought, why
me in the middle of this?
All the Cheyenne began to jabber, waving at him;
impatient for him to leave. Guns Taken thrust the
bow-lance at him a second time.
"Too much talk already! We thirst for coffee. You
find boss
Michael started off, then paused. "Tom?"
Guns Taken uncovered Ruffin's mouth. In a
surprisingly calm voice, the boy replied,
"What, sir?"
"Keep still and they won't hurt you. I'll
be back soon."
The Cheyennebledcc
Even with Guns Taken's hand clasping his face
again, Ruffin managed a nod. The Irishman
turned his back, crossed the summit of the low hill
and broke into a run going down the slope.
Despite Tom Ruffin's grit, Michael
wondered if he'd see the boy alive again.
Armed Camp
MICHAEL RAN with all his strength, plunging through
the thick buffalo grass along the river. Sweat
began to flick off his forehead.
He sped by the spot where he'd dropped his clothing and
drew abreast of the first group of naked bathers laughing
and enjoying a water fight. Wigwagging his arms, he
yelled:
"Back to the train! There are Indians yonder.
They have Tom Ruffin."
Up to his knobby knees in the water, Liam
O'Dey scratched his testicles. "Ah,
Michael Boyle, let's have none of your feeble
jokes this morning."
Michael shook a fist. "It's no damn joke!
I talked to them. If you stay here, the boy's liable
to be murdered. Get moving!"
He spun and dashed on while O'Dey and his
companions clambered up the bank for their clothes.
He stopped to warn three more groups, and sent a man
from the last one running on down the river to summon in
the others-a good hundred or so, strung out in the
shallows for at least a mile to the east. Michael
himself angled toward the perpetual train, waving his
arms frantically again.
Osceola was pulling out. Armed men clinging to the
sides of the locomotive and tender saw him coming.
One poked his head into the cab. The engine stopped with a
squeal and spurting of steam.
Michael went pounding around the edge of the beef herd.
The disturbed animals began to low. Michael's
shouts and arm waving brought two of the drovers charging
at him. One brandished a long stick:
"Quit yer damn yellin' or ye'll stampede
"em."
"Indians!" Michael yelled, pointing west. The
drover turned pale and crossed himself.
As Michael rushed on, noisy, half-naked men
started streaming toward the train from points all along
the bank. He reached the office car, vaulted up the
steps two at a time, and ran along the narrow
corridor. The door of Casement's
cubicle stood ajar. Michael heard a voice
he recognized.
"Either I get my job back from that mick, or I
won't be responsible for what happens to-was
A bull-voiced Casement broke in: "You comw be
responsible or I'll ship you back to Omaha under
guard. Worthing!"
Michael kicked the door open and grabbed the jamb
with both hands, too upset to worry about the presence
of the Virginian. Worthing pivoted toward him. His
face was puffy and discolored. His left eye had
swollen shut.
"Well!" he said in a nasty way. "The very mick
under discussion."

Casement ignored him, eyes on Michael's
sweaty face. Michael gulped air. He couldn't
seem to get enough.
'What the hell's wrong, Boyle?"
'We have visitors, General. About a mile west.
Thirty Indians. Cheyenne, I think."
"Merciful God!" Casement breathed. "That's all
we need."
"Pity they didn't lift your fucking hair,"
Worthing
said, touching a knuckle to the bloated yellow-blue
mass of his left cheek.
"Let him talk!" Casement said. "You saw the
Indians yourself?"
"I did. I had conversation with them. The head man
speaks passable English. They captured Torn
Ruffin. The boy had gone off to catch a grouse-was
In a few sentences he explained what had
happened. At the end, Worthing gaped:
"You mean to say you let a pack of filthy
savages hang onto the boy while you turned
tail?"
Red-faced, Michael snarled, "The leader had a
lance this long-was He flung his arms wide.
"Square in Ruffin's neck. The head man said they
don't want a fight, General Jack. Just
sugared coffee and a look at the equipment. I said
I'd come on ahead and guarantee there'd be no
trouble. We won't get Ruffin back safely
any other way."
"Ah, God," Worthing sighed. "I'd have taken
him back."
Casement stamped over in front of the Virginian.
Though the top of the construction chiefs head only
reached Worthing's chin, his anger was
sufficient to intimidate the Virginian.
"One more word and I'll have you locked up."
The ex-Confederate's open eye glared. Michael
heard men piling into the corridor, asking questions and
calling for Spencers from the sleeping cars. Casement
gestured.
"Shut the door."
Michael did.
"Now tell me. Do you think the hostiles were lying?
Do they want their blasted coffee-or a scrap?"
Weary, Michael leaned against the wall and rubbed at
the sweat on his belly.
"Hell, General, I'm no student of red men.
One minute, the leader-his name's Guns
Taken-struck me as
a straight-out sort. Then I'd get a feeling he
was saying one thing and thinking another. I can't honestly
tell you whether they've come like children to a candy store,
or are just pretending."
"A little of both, maybe," Casement said. "The
fools in the Indian Bureau always make the
mistake of thinking we're up against savages out
here. That was your word, wasn't it, Worthing?
Savages?"
Worthing seethed in silence as Casement
went on:
"But they aren't savages. They've a society
hundreds of years older than ours-and most are
smarter than many an Army officer I've met. You
won't see a Sioux or Cheyenne risking twenty
men to rustle half a dozen cows, but some Army
lieutenants would commit three companies to save one
government heifer." Agitated, he tugged at his
beard. "How are they armed? Any muskets or
rifles?"
"None that I saw. They're carrying knives,
hatchets, bows-and the head man has that devilish
lance. It's all tricked up with feathers and a string for
firing arrows."
Casement muttered a despairing obscenity. "Then
he's a Bowstring. If so, they are Cheyenne."
Noticing Michael's puzzled look, Casement
explained, "The bow-lance is a characteristic of the
Bowstrings, one of the Cheyenne warrior societies.
It means the leader's no boy on a lark, but a
man to be reckoned with. Did he harm Ruffin?"
"Gigged his neck and drew a little blood. More for
my benefit than anything else, I think. But he
said he'd
kill the boy if there were any traps when
he came in."
Casement turned away and pondered, palms resting
on his cluttered desk. Finally his head snapped
up.
"All right. The boy counts most. We'll pull every
man off the engine, and issue a limited number of
rifles. You go to the cooks, Boyle. Have them start
brewing coffee. Gallons of the stuff. Pour on the
sugar."
Worthing couldn't believe it: "You'll permit them
to ride in here?"
"Exactly. I'll not truckle to them, nor let
them think we're weaklings. That's why I want some
Spencers in sight. But neither will I incite them."
"Jesus." Worthing still looked thunderstruck. "Our
herd's been hit how many times? Three? Four?"
"We have lost animals, not men."
"But we should show 'em they can't get away with it!"
Casement shook his head. "We don't know whether
these Indians are the same ones who stole our
stock. To punish them as if they were is not only
wrong, it's foolhardy. I'm not even considering
Ruffin when I say that. Punishing the wrong
Indians is the mistake Chivington made at
Sand Creek. It's the same mistake the
goddamn Army makes every day of the week. It's one
big reason the trouble never stops!"
"This Guns Taken-was Michael put in. "He
claims he lost a sister at Sand Creek."
Casement groaned. "Then we've double the worry.
They're not only Cheyenne, but Cheyenne with a
grudge."
"What fucking difference does it make if they're
not the ones who drove off the stock?" Worthing
fumed. "They'll see the beeves and be back
to help themselves. I say stop 'em ahead of time!"
"Oh," Casement murmured, "you subscribe to the
theory that all of their kind should be wiped out, do you?"
"As long as a single one causes trouble, yes!"
"Worthing, you're an ignoramus. We're the
intruders. We're deep into the tribal buffalo
grounds-the Republican herd's one of the largest in
the West. They see the buffalo being shot by white
men; they see their land being cut up by these tracks;
they see innocent members of their race being punished
for the depradations of
guilty ones-I'll not compound the problems already
created and risk losing men and time!"
Worthing stormed toward the door. "This is the
god-damnedest outfit of "
yellowbellies I've ever seen. I'm going to get
a Spencer and wait for-was
Michael was bowled aside as Casement lunged disand
fastened his hands on Worthing's gray duster. Before the
taller man could react, Casement hurled him against
the cubicle's outer wall. The planking vibrated.
Casement raised on tiptoe, cheeks red as his
quivering beard.
"Captain Worthing, you have taxed my patience to the
limit." A shake of the man's lapels. "To the
limit! You lost the damned war, and I am sick
to death of your trying to win it all over again by besting every
man who strays across your path!"
Worthing's hands clenched. For a moment Michael was
certain there'd be a fight. Then he recalled that the
Southerner liked odds favorable to himself. But Worthing
did fire a verbal salvo:
"I'll settle with you for this, Casement. You and the
mick both. Count on it."
"I already received that message," Michael said.
"In my bunk."
Releasing the Virginian, Casement missed the
glance of venomous understanding between the other two. The
construction boss wiped his hands on his thighs, as if
he'd touched something unclean. He jerked the
door open and confronted a press of men who
bombarded him with questions:
"What's this about Injuns, Gen'ral?"
"Heard they got the Ruffin boy."
"A hundred of the heathen, someone said."
"Lads are breakin' out the Spencers-was
"You-was Casement grabbed the nearest man. "Go through
the sleeping cars and issue a direct order from me.
Twenty rifles out-no more! Have the gang bosses
,
distribute them to men they can trust to keep their heads.
The Indians may mean no harm."
Michael saw doubtful expressions as well as
frightened ones. He was conscious of Worthing staring at
him but didn't turn his head.
"At least they say they don't. They merely want
coffee and a chance to examine our equipment. We'll
take them at their word until they prove we
shouldn't. You, and you-was Casement singled out three more
men.
comy boys escort Captain Worthing to his car and
keep
him there."
Worthing began to swear. Casement paid no attention.
"Sit on him. Tie him. Bash his head
in-I don't care. But he's not to be allowed
outside or permitted to place . his hands on a
weapon. I'll not let one hothead bloody this
whole camp."
"Come on, Reb," one of the appointed men said as the
others closed in. "You just been to Appomattox
all, over again."
The cursing Virginian was manhandled out of sight.
Michael wished Worthing's guards weren't so eager
to show how much they disliked him-or so free with taunts
about the South's defeat. They might only make the
Virginian angrier and more reckless.
Casement began dispatching other men to round up the
workers and have them assemble on the north side of the last
sleeping car, where they would be hidden from any watchers
Guns Taken might have sent to the hilltop.
Michael worked his way along the packed corridor
to the kitchen and called for fresh coffee from the startled
cooks.
Within five minutes he was outside, and Jack
Casement was preparing to address the growing throng around
the steps of the bunk car.

Michael stood toward the rear of the crowd. Above the
clamor of voices, he heard someone
call his name.
He turned. Hannah Dorn was hurrying toward
him, bundled in her shapeless coat. The floppy
hat concealed her bright hair.
Her brother Klaus was with her, carrying his rifle.
Then Dorn appeared from behind the wagon, buttoning his
fly and belching. He looked unsteady on his feet.
He too had his Hawken.
"Mister Boyle-was Hannah touched Michael's
arm. In the band of shadow cast by the hat brim, her
eyes widened in surprise and embarrassment.
It took her a moment to recover and ask, "What's
the difficulty?"
"Surprise guests. Thirty Cheyenne-down there
behind those hills. They've captured one of the lorry
car boys, and-hold on." As he said the last words,
he unconsciously reached across with his right hand and
squeezed her forearm.
Then he too was struck by a realization that he was being
overly familiar. He jerked his hand away.
Their eyes met again. He felt just as chagrined as
she'd been a moment ago. Very nearly stammering, he
added, "Casement-Casement will explain."
The construction boss spoke in a loud voice. At
the announcement of the presence of Indians-the
rumor verified-there were exclamations of astonishment and
alarm. At scattered spots in the crowd, a
Paddy demanded the intruders be met with volleys from
the stored rifles. Casement shouted them down:
"Absolutely not! There'll be no shooting unless
I give the command. They have Ruffin, and they may
honestly mean us no harm."
"But General, we outnumber "em!"
"That would be no consolation to any man killed or
maimed in an unnecessary fight. Of course we
outnumber them. We could storm out there and drive them
off. But I doubt we'd see Ruffin with his scalp
again."
Nervously, Michael glanced toward the blowing
buffalo grass on the line of hills. Perhaps the
Cheyenne were gone and Tom Ruffin was already dead.
Contradictory images of Guns Taken flitted
in his mind. He saw a guileless child, then a sly
trickster. Which was the true picture?
He forced his attention back to Casement.
"We'll remain calm, keep all but twenty
rifles out of sight, see exactly what they
want, and hope they'll depart peaceably when they
get it."
"You know what they want!" a voice burst
out behind Michael. Hannah Dora closed her
eyes before she swung to look at Gustav Dorn.
Hannah started working her way toward him: "Papa,
please. Let General Casement run things."
Even from eight feet away, Michael smelled the
whiskey on the unkempt merchant. Dorn weaved
on his feet as he flourished his riflecc**
"You got shit in your head, Casement! It's more
than coffee the red devils are after. It's guns!
It's liquor -"
He brought the Hawken up to his chest.
"Sons of bitches touch my whiskey, I blow their
heads off. You touch this gun, I do the same for you."
IV
"Papa, that won't help," Hannah pleaded.
She took hold of the Hawken. "Put it down."
"Damn woman-let go!" Spit flecked
Dora's lips as he wrenched the rifle out of
Hannah's grip. Michael felt a spurt of
anger; started for Dorn. Casement yelled:
"Take that rifle away from him!"
Dorn began to back up, putting the Hawken on
cock. A sharp intake of breath came from
Michael's left- from Sean Murphy. Several
Paddies scuttled aside, out of range
of the weaving muzzle.
Licking at the corner of his mouth, Dora dropped
into a crouch.
"Nobody takes it. First who tries, I
shoot."
"Dorn?"
The merchant swung toward Michael. The
Hawken's barrel steadied, aimed at the younger
man's belly.
"What's your two cents, Paddy?"
Michael extended his hand. "Give it up before you're
hurt. The boy's life is more important than
your liquor."
"Paddy, you stay away from me. I got a big
ball ready for you if you don't-
Michael took three more steps-a yard closer to the
German-before he halted. He wiped his mouth. "Be
reasonable, Dora."
"You come on," Dora interrupted, wiggling the
Haw-ken. "You come right on, Mister Mick. As
soon as you walk one step more, I shoot your
goddamn thick head to pieces--ahh!"
He squealed as Hannah's fingers shot in from behind and
clamped on his neck. She'd gone creeping around his
flank while his attention was fixed on
Michael.
Dorn lunged to the side, seized the Hawken's
muzzle, and swung blindly. The stock slammed
Hannah's jaw. Jesus, it could go off!
Michael thought as the girl stumbled, her hat
tumbling from her head. Bent low, he ran at the
German.
He ripped the Hawken from Dora's fingers and
tossed it to a man who juggled it as if it were a
poisonous snake. Dorn aimed a clumsy punch
at Michael's midriff. Michael jerked his
belly back out of the way and used his longer reach
to seize Dorn's ears. He yanked, hard.
Dorn staggered, shrieking obscenities. Men
encircled him. Michael retrieved the Hawken and
uncocked it. He noticed Sean Murphy had
slipped up to the bewildered Klaus and relieved him
of his rifle. He reached down to help Hannah
to her feet.
"I'm sorry I provoked him. I'm sorry he
hurt you."
"Oh-was Tears filled her eyes. Ashamed, she
spun so he couldn't see. She snatched up her
hat and whispered, "What does one more time matter?"
Her grief hurt him too, somehow. He
wanted to reach out to her; comfort her.
Dorn thrashed and yelped as more men surrounded him.
Michael wondered how Hannah Dorn's faith
could withstand her father's behavior. All she believed
seemed negated and made a mockery by the merchant's
pathetic yet potentially lethal rage.
Almost ready to walk to her and risk humiliating her
further by making her look at him, Michael was
prevented by Casement calling for attention.
"Now that we seem to have things in hand, let's try
to get through the remainder of the day without any
casualties. It's up to you men-each and every one. I
want no Indian Bureau commissioners descending
on us to ask why we harmed innocent visitors."
 indeed they're innocent, Michael thought.
"I want to write no reports to General
Dodge and the directors of the line, and more
important, no letters to wives or sweethearts
explaining how a good worker was needlessly slain."
There were still a few grumbles about Casement's lack of
nerve. But most of the rust-eaters agreed with
Michael's silent assessment: It took more
courage for Casement to exercise restraint than it
did to indulge the kind of hostility that made Dorn
and Worthing such
threats. General Jack's forceful voice
overrode the last muttered objections:
"Our job is to save Ruffin, then lay track and
reach the hundredth meridian as fast as we can.
Remember that!"
Except for Dorn cursing among his captors, the
crowd was still.
"Boyle?"
"Here, sir."
"Go tell the Indians to come in."
:":
"Right away, General."
"And Boyle-was
Michael turned back. Three gang bosses had
appeared behind Casement. All three had a pair of
Spencers in each hand, and several of the tubular butt
magazines in their belts. Casement indicated the
weapons:
"Do you want one?"
Michael almost answered yes. He would have felt far
safer. But he thought of Tom Ruffin. The sight of a
rifle might provoke an impulsive stab of that
bow-lance. One thrust was all it would take to kill the
boy.
"No, I'd better go without."
Casement nodded, a thin smile relieving the
severity of his mouth for a moment.
Heart hammering, Michael set off along a lane
that opened in the crowd. The men had fallen so silent
he could hear the whine of the prairie wind and the hiss of
steam from Osceola.
The Race
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Michael returned
to the railhead, a pale but unhurt Tom Ruffin
by his side. Behind them, riding single file with
Guns Taken leading the procession, came the
Cheyenne.
Virtually every worker had turned out to watch.
Hundreds of Paddies stood or sat in small
groups. A few looked openly hostile, others
anxious. But the majority were merely curious.
Approaching the finished track west of the perpetual
train, Michael searched for the seven-shot repeating
rifles distributed while he was gone. He spied
the first two with the stock drovers. A wise
precaution, he decided when he heard a burst of
Indian talk. He turned to see a young brave
point to the cattle and make a smirking comment to the
rider behind. On the faces of several of the Cheyenne
he saw undisguised envy.
His eyes moved back to the train. Most of the workers
had gathered along the north side. He noticed one
man still relaxing in a hammock slung beneath a
sleeping car. No, not precisely relaxing; the
barrel of a Spencer was visible.
Two men lounged beside their 'tent on the car's roof.
The mellow sunlight of the mare's-tail sky set the
barrel of another Spencer flashing.
The man holding the repeater shifted position. The
flare of light vanished. But not before Guns Taken
and his braves took note.
Closer scrutiny showed Michael the location of other
rifles. Casement had arranged things well. The
Spencers were inconspicuous but not invisible. The
unarmed workers were aware of the guns. In front of a
Paddy with a rifle in the crook of his arm, Liam
O'Dey sweated" and fiddled with his holy beads.
Casement came striding around the end of the nearest
boxcar. He too carried a rifle, and had
buckled on a bolstered Colt. He stopped on the
track, his red beard snapping in the breeze.
Along the north side of the train, Michael heard
swearing. He craned to see the source-two cooks
hurriedly setting planks on a couple of
barrels. A third man came scrambling
down from the kitchen, rag-wrapped hands gripping the
bail of a huge enamel pot trailing steam from its
spout.
Casement's eyes darted to the boy at Michael's
side. "He's fine, sir," Michael said quickly.
"Guns Taken kept his word."
The track boss nodded and gazed past him as the
procession halted. Guns Taken dismounted and
walked forward with bow-lance in hand. His bare stomach
quivered. Though the Indian was more than a little
bowlegged and his huge melon of a belly looked
soft, Jack Casement didn't relax.
Guns Taken stopped a foot from the construction
boss. The Cheyenne's six-foot height and
Casement's shortness presented a curiously comic
picture. Guns Taken peered down at the
smaller man with a guarded smile Casement didn't
disreturn.
Casement made the peace sign with his free hand.
Guns Taken replied using the identical
gesture. Casement's hand began to dart, point,
describe fluid curves.
After a minute of the sign talk Michael didn't
understand, Casement dropped his hand to his side.
Guns
Taken grunted in a way that seemed to signify
satisfaction. Michael scanned the crowd again,
finally located Hannah Dora, her father and brother
among a half-dozen men near the whiskey wagon.
Dorn appeared as truculent as ever. Three of those
close to him carried Spencers. No accident, that
grouping. Michael hoped the men guarding Leonidas
Worthing were equally alert and well armed.
Again Casement spoke with his hand. Guns Taken
answered:
"Yes, English. Talk English if you want.
We are friends. Come only to watch how you build the
fire road. Watch and drink sweet coffee."
Casement hoisted a thumb over his shoulder. "It's
ready. Our present to you. We welcome a
peaceful visit."
"First-was Guns Taken cocked his bow-lance toward a
rail. "Show how these are put in the earth."
"No." Casement shook his head. "No, we are not
working today."
Guns Taken didn't like that. He chattered to his
warriors. Several scowled and grumbled. Michael
saw hands tighten on quirts or reach toward
knives. Casement saw it too. He spoke
firmly to recapture the attention of the
leader:
"This is a holy day for my men. A day of rest.
They pray to God-was His swift-moving hand
amplified the explanation. "comdrink coffee.
Sleep. Tend their clothing. Some ride the fire
horse up and down the track-was
Guns Taken failed to understand the last word until
Casement's finger indicated the same rail to which the
Indian had pointed.
"Track."
"Uh. Track!"
"But there is no work on it today."
Guns Taken accepted the fact grudgingly:
"All right. Give us the coffee. Show us the fire
horse."
Casement turned slightly. "Come this way." The
big Cheyenne didn't move. Back along the
train, Michael noticed the photographer,
Stackpole, readying his camera and black cloth with
slow, cautious movements. Guns Taken glanced
at the motionless workers. The small clusters looked
almost posed. The Indian couldn't miss the rifles.
Michael thought the tall Indian's eyes lingered a
moment on the whiskey wagon. Lord, he can't read
what's painted on the barrels, can he?
Abruptly, the Indian stabbed the head of his
bow-lance into the fill between two ties: "Too many
guns here."
"Not to harm you," Casement assured him. "Out here
we must carry guns for our own safety. We have
been raided at night. Cattle have been stolen-was
"We steal no cattle!"
"I am not saying you do." Casement's jaw thrust
out. A touch of pugnacity sharpened his tone: "I have
no way of knowing, however."
That displeased the big man. "Others. Others!" "Very
well, I believe you speak the truth," Casement
replied, emphasizing it with more gestures. His hand
kept moving as he started for the train. "Let there be
peace while you examine-uh, see-the fire road.
Come. Drink and see."
Guns Taken spent a few more seconds weighing the
advisability of accompanying Casement to the side
of the train where so many men were gathered. Some were still half
undressed from their swim.
The Indian drew a deep breath, appearing
to stretch himself an inch or two in the process. He
looked not only taller but regal. His bearing was a
declaration that he felt no fear among so many
whites.
Moving with impressive grace, he returned
to his
pony and leaped onto its back in a surprisingly
agile fashion. He raised the lance above his head.
Still in single file, the Cheyenne began to walk their
calicos toward the train.
Casement stood aside and beckoned Michael. The
construction boss slipped the Colt from his holster,
pressed it into Michael's hand and said in a low
voice:
"Stay with me. You're one of the few I can trust
to keep a level head. I assume you know how
to use one of these?"
Guns Taken rode by. His shadow flitted across
Casement's face. The Cheyenne gazed straight
ahead, not bothering to acknowledge the two white men.
"Yes, I've gone out on the engine pinking at
rabbits once or twice."
"Let's hope there'll be no need for you to pink at
anything else."
ii
At the improvised coffee station, the cooks were
busy filling tin cups. Stackpole approached with
his tripod over his shoulder. He asked permission
to take a photograph. The Cheyenne
jabbered excitedly and shook their fists at the
black-shrouded box.
"You've seen a camera?" Casement asked.
"At forts," Guns Taken nodded. "It is the
box-which-steals-the-spirit. A part of a man is drawn
into it and held captive there forever."
Casement controlled a smile. "Very well, no
photographs." He ordered the camera removed
by the crestfallen Mr. Stackpole.
Then he called on three workers to come forward and
help him distribute coffee to the still-mounted guests.
The Indians gulped the contents of the cups with
lip-smacking pleasure. Michael eyed the group
beside the
whiskey wagon. Dorn was talking and gesturing;
obviously resentful the Cheyenne were being so royally
treated.
Guns Taken drained his cup. His bow-lance rested
across his thighs. He thrust the cup down at
Casement in an arrogant Way.
Obviously irked, the construction boss nevertheless
took the cup, had it refilled, and brought it back.
Guns Taken drank every drop, then flung the cup
on the ground.
"The fire horse!"
A bit testily, Casement said, "Right there it is.
The engine is a regular 4-4-0 type. That is-was
He pointed. "comfour wheels on the front truck,
four drivers, but no wheels beneath the cab. It
weighs just under thirty tons, burns wood, and was
named for a famous chief of the Seminoles, Osce-was
Bored, Guns Taken interrupted with a sharp shake
of his head:
"No talk. Talk makes no sense."
"Then ride up and see the damned thing for yourself!"
Guns Taken was amused by the other man's losing his
temper. This time his head-shaking was unbearably slow.
He enjoyed making Casement uncomfortable.
"Show us the fire horse running."
Casement started to refuse, then thought a moment.
"AU right. Boyle?"
Michael moved to his side.
"We'll take her a few miles down the track.
You climb on the pilot board so they stay off.
I'll ride in the cab. If they demand a
demonstration, by God I'll give them one
to remember."
Michael trotted to the head of the engine, scrambled
up on the platform of the cowcatcher, and squatted down
while the Cheyenne walked their ponies
closer to the locomotive. Their eyes grew huge
at the sight of the
hissing contraption with a smoke plume drifting from its
funnel stack.
Casement mounted to the cab and barked orders to the
engineer and fireman. Suddenly the whistle blasted.
A calico reared, nearly upsetting its rider.
Another Cheyenne grabbed for his hatchet, yelped
something that must have been a curse and flung the weapon.
Michael ducked. The hatchet clanged off the
front of the engine not far from his head. He tightened his
trigger finger just a little. Casement leaned out of the cab:
"Guns Taken, keep your braves quiet! That's
the sound the fire horse makes when it's ready
to run."
The whistle screamed again, joined by the clanging bell.
The Indian ponies shied. Guns Taken clapped
his free hand over his mouth, his eyes round as a child's
again. The bell kept ringing as the engine lurched
forward.
The Indians scattered to both sides of the track.
Michael felt wind against his face as he squinted
at the braves trotting along beside him, awed by the
slow whump of the drive rods and the grind of the wheels.
The ringing bell was interrupted by a third
howl of the whistle that brought alarmed looks to several
dark faces.
That fear wasn't good, Michael thought. Fear could
lead to anger.
In a moment he was proved right. One of the braves
kicked his pony and raced up beside the cowcatcher,
shaking his bow and screeching at the iron monster starting
to spew sparks along with the smoke.
Osceola was gathering speed, its rods moving back
and forth with a steadily accelerating beat. The front
truck rattled. The huge driving wheels squealed
on the rails. The brush of the wind against Michael's
face became a push. Twenty yards ahead,
Guns Taken flourished
his bow-lance, kicked his pony, and went charging east
beside the track.
His braves howled and followed, racing on either side
of the right of way. The ponies raised dust that blew
in Michael's face and started him coughing.
The Indians rode hard, waving hatchets,
quirts, and bows and uttering cries of scorn. The
engine fell behind. The yelps and barks grew
jubilant as the braves increased the distance between
themselves and the fire-horse.
Abruptly, Michael felt the engine
lurch. The rhythm of the rods began to quicken.
He shot out a hand to grip one of the vertical bars
by which a man could hold his place on the cowcatcher.
The locomotive swayed around a slight curve,
gaining speed again. Plainly Casement meant what
he'd said about a demonstration. Politeness was one
thing, defeat that suggested weakness quite another.
Clanking and rumbling, Osceola moved steadily
faster. Spark-filled smoke streamed from the stack.
Swaying from side to side as he clung to the bar,
Michael thought he heard the engineer call for more
wood. He definitely heard the wood crash into the
firebox. Within seconds, the locomotive began
to close the gap.
The Cheyenne looked over their shoulders and started
flogging their ponies with bare heels. Their cries of
pleasure became cries of outrage.
Michael's bones throbbed as he knelt on the
pilot board. He was all but blinded by billowing
dust. Chuffing and thundering, the locomotive drew up
opposite the slowest rider.
Osceola passed the Indian and, moments later,
another. He shook his bow at Michael.
The engine caught up with four more Cheyenne on the
other side. Their mounts were already lathered.
They fell behind.
A cacophony of rattling, clanking metal beat
against Michael's ears. The engine swayed more and more
violently. The whistle screamed, and the bell never
stopped ringing. Michael's hand was white on the bar.
Soon, half the Cheyenne had been outdistanced.
After another half mile, only Guns Taken
remained unbeaten. He rode bent forward over his
pony's neck. He kicked the game animal without
mercy and kept glancing back at the puffing monster.
The Cheyenne's spine and shoulders glowed with sweat.
The engine noise was like a cataclysm shaking the
earth. The point of the cowcatcher drew up even with
Guns Taken. The warrior's mouth worked, but the
roar drowned his cries as he urged his mount to greater
and greater effort.
To no purpose. Inexorably, Osceola began
to pass Mm.
Through the dust, Michael had a last glimpse of the
Cheyenne's face turned toward his adversary.
Tears or sweat shone beneath his enraged eyes.
Bell jangling, whistle bellowing, the locomotive
left him behind in a cloud of smoke, sparks, and
drifting ash.

With a yowl of iron, the engine began to slow down. The
bell stopped ringing. Michael exhaled and slackened
his hold on the bar.
Over the next half mile, Osceola ground to a
halt, jerked into reverse, and began to chug backward
toward the railhead. Without any warning, Guns
Taken was there beside the track, his bow-lance clutched in
his right hand.
He sat absolutely still as he watched the
locomotive go by. Wind blew smoke from the
stack and gusted it down into his face.
Sparks made his pony sidestep, start to rear.
Guns Taken jerked on the plaited hair and gave
the animal half a dozen vicious kicks until
it stood quietly again. Then he jerked the bridle
and began to follow the engine back toward the work
train.
One by one the other Cheyenne appeared on either side
of the cowcatcher and fell in behind their leader. On each
sunlit face Michael saw mingled fear and fury.
The Indian procession trailed Osceola at a
distance of about a quarter mile. Not one brave
spoke. Michael wondered at Casement's
wisdom in demonstrating the engine's speed. It was
never good to humiliate an enemy. He'd
learned that from Louis Kent and Worthing, among
others.
The Cheyenne jogged slowly after the locomotive,
their eyes brimming with the hatred men reserved for a
conqueror whose power they had come to feel at a cost of
great pain and lost pride.
iv
When the engine braked, Michael jumped down. He
thrust the Colt into the waist of his trousers and ran
back to join the sooty-faced Casement climbing from
the cab.
"I don't believe our (visitors took
kindly to losing, General."
Casement ignored the Irishman's rueful smile
and shrugged in what amounted to a callous dismissal.
"I didn't intend that they should. Maybe if they're
sufficiently impressed before they depart-was
"You mean frightened."
"Call it what you please. I hope I've
persuaded them to leave us alone."
Michael inclined his head. "Look at the head
man."
Guns Taken was riding past the engine, scanning it
as if it were a thing of filth.
"He doesn't enjoy being whipped."
"But he has been. That was my purpose. To whip
him. Peaceably but positively. Don't forget,
Boyle-was Casement's glance said he wasn't
overjoyed to have Michael question his actions, "comour
objective is still to get the line through with a minimum of
trouble. If their pride has to take a licking before
they realize they can't stop us, so be it. I didn't
order Charlie to open her to full throttle just on a
whim."
Michael let the matter drop, though he still had
doubts as to whether intimidating the visitors had
been wise. Guns Taken gave the locomotive
a last withering look. There was no longer any
pretense of friendliness on his face as he jabbed the
bow-lance at the boxcars.
"Show us those, white man."
The Cheyenne didn't miss Casement's faint
smile. "Certainly."
The sullen Indians dismounted. Casement ushered the
first of them into the second bunk car, Michael's.
The construction boss hadn't lost all sensitivity
to the perils of the situation. Captain Worthing was in the
other car.
Michael waited at the steps, letting the Cheyenne
climb up and enter one at a time. None
of the Indians uttered a sound. An almost eerie
silence had descended on the camp. In Worthing's
car, someone yelled.
Christ, keep a tight hand on that fool!
The last brave passed him, intentionally stumbling, and
driving an elbow into his ribs. Michael's hand
jerked toward the Colt but he kept his temper. He
met the Cheyenne's defiant gaze calmly and
motioned for the Indian to precede him.
When he had, Michael grasped the handrail and went
up the steps, fervently hoping Casement could
conclude the visit and get the Indians away from the
railhead before their anger exploded.
Slaughter
IN THE BUNK CAR it very nearly did.
Guns Taken hovered at Casement's elbow,
leading the line of braves down the aisle. The
Indians stared but remained silent.
At the end of the car, Guns Taken paused beside the
partially empty rifle racks. From his position at
the rear, Michael heard the Cheyenne leader say
something in a quarrelsome tone. The exact words were
lost because the others blocking the aisle started growling
agreement.
Gradually the hubbub diminished. Michael
caught Casement's firm, "No."
"White man-was
'no. Absolutely not."
The line moved again. The Cheyenne shuffled out of the
car. Michael drew abreast of Casement, who was still
stationed beside the racks. The red-bearded construction
boss whispered:
"The big one's really hot now."
"Why?"
"He wanted some of these rifles, gratis."
Outside, Guns Taken stood beside the roadbed,
both hands on his bow-lance. His braves had gathered
behind him. The track boss went down the steps.
Michael started to follow, then snapped his head around
at the sound of ferocious thumping in the adjoining car.
Several of the Cheyenne heard the noise. Hands
dropped to the hilts of knives and hatchets. But
there was further disturbance.
Guns Taken shook his lance at the car just vacated:
"You show us something else."
"What?"
"Show that the men of the fire road are truly friends.
Give us-was He held up his left hand, the fingers
spread. "comth many guns."
Casement said quietly, "I've already
told you the guns belong to the railroad."
Guns Taken thrust his fingers close to Casement's
nose. The smaller man didn't blink.
"This many!" Guns Taken insisted.
"No, and that's final."
Michael eased the Colt into his hand. The mood
of the confrontation was growing ugly. All along the
train, watching workers were stirring, anticipating
trouble-
More temperately, Casement went on, "We have
welcomed you peacefully. We have, shown you the strength
of the fire horse. We have poured sweet coffee."
Guns Taken spat on the ground to show what value
he placed on everything Casement had mentioned. The
moment produced an unexpected ambivalence in
Michael. He admired the audacity of the Cheyenne
leader. It took courage to make demands in the
face of vastly superior numbers. At the same
time, he felt sorry for Guns Taken and his
braves. In the masses of white men-and the
humiliating speed of the locomotive-the warriors
had glimpsed their coming defeat. Perhaps even their
extermination.
Once more the construction boss resorted to sign
language along with words:
"I am deeply sorry Guns Taken is
angered. We wish only friendship. But we cannot give
away rifles which might be turned against us."
Guns Taken thrust his bow-lance into the shoulder of the
roadbed, raking a long gouge in the gravel. He
whirled and addressed his braves. Muttering, they
followed him back to the ponies". While the
Indians mounted, more cursing and thumping erupted in the
other sleeping car.
Re-forming his braves into single file, Guns
Taken began to ride out the way he had come in.
He maneuvered his pony close to the front ranks
of the workers, forcing them to fall back. A few
didn't want to, but the more prudent prevailed.
The potential troublemakers were virtually dragged out
of the way.
Michael and Casement followed the procession on
foot. Michael observed the heightened tension-the
scowls, the whispers-among the men, and despite good
intentions, fell victim to it himself.
The hoofs of the ponies plopped in the silence.
Puffs of dust blew away in the breeze. Guns
Taken gazed down contemptuously at the Paddies
he passed.
All at once he reined his pony to a
stop opposite the whiskey wagon.
Dorn's half-dozen guards stepped closer. The
merchant was still fuming. Behind him, Hannah stood
white-lipped, her hat in her right hand and her
wheat-colored hair glinting in the sun. Her eyes
remained fixed on her father.
Guns Taken pointed the bow-lance at one of the
barrels.
"We drink water before we go." He rubbed his palm
across his throat. "We have a great thirst."
Casement strode forward. "That's not water. You
can't-was
Guns Taken paid no attention. He climbed off
his pony and started toward the wagon. Casement
caught up, snagged his arm.
"Guns Taken, the answer is no."
The last word ignited the Cheyenne's temper:
"No, no!-I have heard enough no!"
He shoved Casement away. Dorn cursed and
took a
step. Three of his guards caught and held him as
Hannah pleaded for him to restrain himself. Then, without
warning, Guns Taken lunged and rammed the iron
head of the bow-lance into a whiskey barrel.
11
Wood cracked and split. The Cheyenne jerked the
lance-head free, wonderment on his face. The odor
of the pale brown liquid spurting to the ground was
unmistakable.
The other Cheyenne identified it too. They began
to murmur and gesticulate. One laughed.
"Goddamn you, let go!" Dorn puffed, trying
to free himself. "If that red bastard steals-was
"Papa, be still!" Hannah cried.
Guns Taken drove his bow-lance into the barrel again,
increasing the size of the hole.
Chortling, the fat-bellied Indian squatted and
put his mouth to the spouting stream of forty-rod. Dorn
broke loose.
Casement called a warning. Men tried to catch the
merchant, failed. He was halfway to the crouching
Indian when one of the younger Cheyenne flung himself from
his horse. Michael saw metal flash.
The young warrior ran with astonishing speed. Over by the
train, a Spencer came up-too slowly. Dorn
fastened his hands on Guns Taken's neck. The
younger Indian uttered a piercing yell and drove the
blade of his trade hatchet at Dorn's forehead.
Bone cracked. Dorn shrieked and staggered, the
hatchet buried in the front of his skull.
Blood trickled down both sides of the blade and
into his eyesockets.

"Papa!" Hannah screamed, running to help him.
Dorn fell against the wagon, dying on his feet.
The blood poured down the folds beside his nose to his
white-streaked beard. The young brave turned on
Hannah, ready to fight barehanded. Michael jerked
his Colt level but the girl was in the way.
He dropped the revolver and flung himself between the
Indian and Dorn's daughter. Casement shouted
something he couldn't hear. A Spencer blasted from the
roof of the office car.
Had Michael not caught Hannah's waist and
dragged her down, the rifle ball would have hit her.
It thwacked the wagon bed a second after Dorn's
guards scattered.
Michael sprawled on top of Hannah as Guns
Taken scrambled to his feet and dashed for his pony.
Hannah screamed again, hysterical now.
Lying on top of her thrashing body, he heard the
hammer of boots, confused yells and curses, then
a second explosion. The ball plowed a furrow a
foot from where he had pinned Hannah to the ground.
He twisted his head to look. Through a
tangle of mounted Cheyenne, Michael glimpsed
Leonidas Worthing on the sleeping car steps. The
Virginian levered a spent cartridge out of the
breech of his rifle. His gray duster was torn, his
face marked by cuts: Behind him, two of his three
guards staggered into view. Both were badly
bloodied.
The guards tried to jump Worthing. He eluded their
hands, leaped down from the platform, and aimed at the
Indians milling around Guns Taken to protect
him while he vaulted to the back of his pony.
Casement was directly in the line of fire. He
flung himself to the ground. The ex-Confederate blew a
Cheyenne off his horse. Blood pattered on the
ground next to
Michael and Hannah. The shot unleashed
pandemonium.
Two rifles roared. Another Indian shrieked.
Michael jumped up, retrieved his Colt. A
Cheyenne was aiming an arrow at Casement, who was
climbing to his feet. Michael fired.
The Cheyenne toppled sideways off his pony.
Michael winced at the sight of the gaping wound in the
Indian's belly.
Guns Taken kicked his pony and went
racing away toward the end of the track. Here and there a
Spencer banged. But Casement's judicious
placement of the guns now had an unexpected
consequence. Those with the weapons were so spread out, and so
many men were milling everywhere, the rifles couldn't be
used effectively. Drifting smoke from Osceola
and dust raised by the Indian ponies only compounded
the problem.
Virtually unmolested, the rest of the Cheyenne
swung westward and galloped after their leader, who
obviously knew they stood no chance, and refused
to squander more lives in a futile fight.
Casement was on his feet now, wigwagging his rifle:
"Let them go. Let them go. Someone see to the
Dutchman."
"Stand aside, you damn coward," Worthing yelled,
appearing behind Casement and clubbing at him with the stock
of the Spencer.
Casement dodged. Worthing bellowed, "I'll get
one or two more before-was
Casement beat Worthing's arm with the muzzle of his
Spencer. The bloodied,, demoralized men who'd
permitted Worthing to escape goggled from the bunk car
steps.
Casement avoided a second blow from
Worthing's rifle. The dust thickened. The last
two Cheyenne leaned down from horseback with amazing
suppleness,
snatched up their two dead, and went racing away
toward the trackless grade.
Michael and other men were rushing to help Casement.
But not quickly enough. The Virginian's third blow
glanced off Casement's temple and knocked him
down.
Michael ran faster. Worthing saw him coming.
Something uncontrollable had taken possession of
Worthing. The Cheyenne were out of range, but he still
wanted a target. The Spencer muzzle shifted through
a quarter of a circle, aimed at Michael.
Worthing's eyes glowed with perverse joy. Michael
flung himself face forward in the dirt as the rifle
thundered. The ball hit Dorn's wagon and sent
splinters flying.
"Pack of cowards!" Worthing bawled. "Wouldn't have
happened if you'd listened to me. You, Boyle."
He peered through the dust. "You're the one
responsible."
He aimed for Michael again but couldn't get a clear
shot Too many men were hurrying to Casement's aid.
They pulled up short as the muzzle of
Worthing's rifle menaced them. On his knees,
Casement groped for Worthing's leg.
Worthing had to concentrate on the closer adversary.
Again he seized the rifle by the barrel. Started
to bring it down stock first on Casement's head.
Lying prone with his gun hand extended and his view all
at once unimpeded, Michael yelled Worthing's
name. The man in the duster didn't hear. Or if
he did, he was too angry to care. He bashed
Casement on the top of the head.
Casement cried out. Once again Worthing found
Michael and leveled the rifle at him. God
forgive me, Michael thought, and pulled the trigger.
The Colt boomed and bucked. Two men who had
almost succeeded in reaching Casement took headers in
the dirt. Michael's shot caught Worthing
squarely in the chest, bulging his eyes and hurtling
him backward.
Sick, Michael leaned his cheek on his forearm.
Ifs the war again. In another place, another time,
but it's the war all the same.
1 was a fool to think I could ever escape.
IV
The railhead was in total confusion. Men were running;
shouting. The one on the roof of the westernmost
car fired vainly after the retreating Indians. It was
too late. The last riders disappeared beyond the low
hills near the river.
" The sunlit air smelled of blood, powder, the
excrement of dead men. Michael wobbled to his
feet as a black face emerged from the drifting
dust.
"Greenup? Look after General Jack."
The black and Sean Murphy reached the construction
boss just as he struggled to a sitting position,
blinking and coughing. A patch of lacerated scalp
gleamed redder than Casement's hair.
"I-I'll be up in a moment." Casement gasped.
He pushed with his hands, finally managed to stand. "How
many are-hurt?"
"Catch him!" Greenup cried as Casement
collapsed.
Sean Murphy and the black started to lift the fallen
man. "Don't!" Michael warned. "Not till you
see how badly he's injured."
He spun to a couple of Paddies who had crept
forward to examine Worthing's corpse. One wore a
torn shirt. Michael had seen him behind the
Virginian on the bunk car steps. He shook the
Colt in the man's face.
"How the hell did that lunatic get loose?"
"Jumped us," the man panted, wiping his nose with the
torn shirt's tail. "Fought like a catamount."
"Thanks to you, he did almost as much harm as the
Cheyenne."
"But we couldn't help-was
"Shut your goddamn mouth!" Michael pivoted
away.
He was growing sick at his stomach. He tasted
sourness in his throat. Quiet began to settle all
at once. A final rifle shot crashed and echoed.
In the silence, Hannah cried out.
It wasn't a scream. It was lower; a hurt,
guttural sound. He flung the revolver away,
turned and saw her crouching beside her father's body.
She was trying to touch him. She rocked back and forth
on her heels, her fingers an inch from the clothound
shaft of the hatchet. Young Klaus leaned against a
wagon wheel, crying.
Michael forced himself to walk.
"Miss Dorn?"
No response.
"Miss Dorn, come away. We'll take care of
him."
She raised her head and looked straight
at him. He might have been transparent.
Suddenly her hand closed on the red-wrapped shaft.
She wrenched the weapon out of Dorn's skull.
"Jaysus, she's gone daft!" a man yelped.
Stunned workers watched Hannah clamber to her
feet, a strange moaning sound coming from her clenched
teeth. The hatchet dripped red onto the worn
toes of her boots.
She seemed like some tortured animal, staring around the
ring of astounded faces. Michael stretched out his hand.
"For God's sake, Miss Dorn, give me-was
With a wailing cry, she turned and dashed to the wagon.
To the one liquor barrel left unbroken.
Both hands on the hatchet handle, she swung the
weapon in a lateral arc, smashing the wood.
She struck a second time.
A third.
The staves cracked. Liquor gushed over her
trousers. Still she kept swinging, trying to find something
to destroy comsomething to blame for the corpse on the ground
behind her.
Michael edged closer. "Careful, lad!" Sean
Murphy called. "She may turn on you."
"We can't let her do herself harm."
He shot his hands out, seizing her wrist.
She wrenched, trying to tear free. The hatchet head
grazed his left thumb, drawing blood.
God, she was strong. Strong and wild with grief.
Desperate to avoid the slashing head, he pressed
her wrist with the nails of his right hand. While she
shrieked at him to let go, the hatchet slipped,
plopping into the slime of mud created by the spilled
liquor.
He wrapped one arm around her waist and dragged her
against his chest. She-struggled, but he held fast.
She kept crying. The reaction to the killings struck
him then. He began to shake, almost as badly as she
was shaking. He fought to shut out sounds. Klaus
hiccuping as he attempted to control his crying;
Casement protesting feebly that he was fine.
Gradually Michael's trembling passed. He
stood with both arms protectively closed around
Hannah Dorn, asking himself whether the price of
anything valuable- the price of Union, the price
of freedom for the blacks, the price of a mile of
track a day-always had to be this. Had to be war. A
big war or a little one, with identical, inevitable
endings-
Savagery. Blood. Loss. Suffering.
She came so far, he thought as he wrapped
his arms tighter around her shuddering body. still came far
too. Neither of us found a whit of peace.
His heart broke for her. Again this morning, the faith
she professed had been made to seem worthless.
He lifted a hand to stroke her hair.
It failed to calm her very much. She kept sobbing and
shuddering. An anonymous voice clamored out of his
memory:
"Jaysus, she's gone daft."
He didn't doubt that for a short time she had. What
frightened him now was something far more important. After
what she's seen, would she ever be rational again?
Without realizing how it had come to pass, he discovered
the answer mattered.
Mattered desperately.
To Every Purpose Under Heaven"
A GRIM-FACED JACK CASEMENT sat
propped in his bunk in a tiny cubicle adjoining his
office. It was shortly past seven that same evening.
Michael had been summoned.
Casement looked uncomfortable in his bulky
nightshirt. Lengths of bandage were wrapped around his
head. He directed his visitor to a stool with a
quick, almost irritable gesture.
Michael sat down. Waited. A ceiling
lamp illuminated half of Casement's face.
He gnawed his lower lip. Changed position.
Grimaced:
"Boyle, you were right."
"Concerning what, sir?"
"Humiliating the Indians. Letting the engine beat
them. It was my decision, and it was a bad one. If
I hadn't mishandled the situation we might have
gotten them out of the camp with no casualties."
Michael shrugged in a tired way. "Why worry
now, General? It's done."
"It certainly is not! I'm obliged to tell
General Dodge. More important, I'll have
to write a report for the directors. Frankly,
I'm thinking of falsifying it. If I put the
truth on paper, I'll be trumpeting to the world that the
line's run into more difficulty-exactly the sort
Dodge predicted. In Omaha, he told me
privately we'd be lucky not to lose a man for every
mile of track laid west of Kearney."
"To Every Purpose Under Heaven"bledfi
Michael said nothing. He liked the hard-driving little
man too much to encourage such questionable behavior.
He wondered exactly what Casement wanted of
him, then decided the construction boss would
let him know when he was ready. He kept silent
while Casement yanked his nightshirt over his pale
knees and shoved at the bedding to raise himself.
"Don't you see, Boyle-if anything gets
into print concerning what took place this afternoon, Dr.
Durant, Dix, and the rest of the officers will have an
even harder time attracting capital. God knows the
job's difficult enough already. Now personally-was He
covered his mouth, coughed. "comI don't give a
damn what people say about me. My brother and I are
merely contractors. We can push the line through whether
we're pilloried in the press or not-was
A pause. Then a sardonic smile quirked
Casement's mouth.
"No, I'm lying to you. I do care about my
reputation. I've always despised being a small
man. That's why I want to build part of the biggest
damn construction project of this century. But it is
the truth when I say I'm not thinking solely of
myself. The more trouble reported to Wall Street and
Washington, the more the line's in danger of collapsing
altogether."
His eyes pinned Michael. "The next two months
are crucial."
Michael felt compelled to be honest:
"I don't see how it's possible to suppress
what happened today."
"It's possible for six or eight weeks. That's
all I need. All the line needs-nothing in print
until we pass the hundredth meridian. Of
course the men will "talk. They'll talk to the
supply train crews. But rumors in Omaha are
one thing, newspaper stories quite another. I've
already taken one step to forestall problems. I've
telegraphed headquarters saying I'll permit no
more journalists at the railhead till we reach the
meridian."
"I realize the meridian's an important
goal. But what difference does it make whether the
story's spread before we get there?"
"Because-was Casement hesitated. When he resumed,
he sounded almost conspiratorial. "Because Dr.
Durant has informed me he's planning a mammoth
rail excursion."
"A what?"
"A trip out here on a special train,
to celebrate the line passing the meridian. Keep
that to yourself. Otherwise I'll get a second-best
effort out of the lads. All they'll be thinking of is a
celebration-and they'll crucify me if they
learn they won't be taking part."
"Can you tell me any more about this excursion?"
Casement's sour look suggested the whole scheme was
an irritant.
"Yes. Durant telegraphed the details last
week. Even though the Federal acts don't
require us to reach the meridian until next year,
we have to reach it before winter. As you know, the line's
charter is unofficial until we do. But that's not
half so important as the cash problem. If we go
one more year without a big infusion of capital, the
line may wash right down the drainpipe. So the good
doctor has come up with this"-an annoyed wave-"this
publicity party! The purpose is to impress
invited guests from New York and Chicago. A
hundred of them, perhaps more. Reporters. Potential
investors. Foreign nabobs. The military.
Members of Congress-maybe even Andy Johnson
himself. It's the same sort of holiday that Central
Pacific arranged last year for Schuyler the
Smiler."
"Who?"
"Schuyler Colfax, that Republican trimmer from
Indiana. Speaker of the House."
"Oh, yes."
"To Every Purpose Under Heaven"bledga
"It's evident Durant means to stage something ten
times as lavish as the Central Pacific
excursion. He's already purchased the Lincoln car
--the armoured one built for Abe in sixty-four.
Only time the poor devil traveled in it was when
he went home to Springfield. Dead. Anyway,
Durant's cleaning out the till to make the trip a
success. My God, the man's a gambler!"
"I've heard railroad promotion requires that
kind of temperament," Michael smiled.
"He has it. He's putting thousands into four new
coaches being built in the Omaha shops right now.
When the excursion train arrives, there'll be every kind
of lawful diversion you can think of-and no doubt some
unlawful ones to boot. There'll be fireworks.
Lectures on phrenology. Demonstrations of
horsemanship and Indian tactics by Frank
North's tame Pawnee scouts. Picture
takers all over the place-food catered by that
high-priced Kinsley outfit in Chicago--and
Rosenblatt's Band of St. Joseph and the Western
Light Guard providing the music."
"Sounds like quite an investment."
"Quite a risk, you mean. I've wired
Durant I won't permit the festivities
to interfere with work. But I know he needs the excursion
to attract cash. A press account right now,
describing an Indian attack, will practically
guarantee its failure."
He scrutinized Michael. "Do you understand why
I'm considering a falsified report?"
"Now I do."
"I suppose I'm also fishing for advice."
"And for someone to ease your conscience by endorsing a fake
story?"
"Mr. Boyle, some men would boot your ass for that
remark." But he was smiling.
Michael wasn't. "I'm just trying to establish
what you want of me. Is it advice on whether
to lie?"
"Don't be presumptuous. Besides, there's no way
to
lie about two dead men. Fm talking about a-was He
tilted his hand back and forth, a gesture of
equivocation. "Call it a coloration of the facts.
It can be done. I won't have to account to Worthing's
kin. I had the employee records brought in a
while ago. The departed captain listed no
relatives except a distant cousin in
Mississippi. The Dorn girl, though-with her father
murdered, she could make trouble for us."
He scratched his nose. "Suppose I put
nothing really damaging on paper. Suppose we just
had a camp altercation comreported as such."
Casement studied the other man, awaiting a
response. When he got none, he prodded:
"The difficulty is still the young woman. Have you seen
her?"
"Yes. About half an hour ago, I called at
the tent to offer my sympathies."
"Does she intend to stay here?"
"No."
"I didn't think so. When she goes home, she's
liable to talk. Word could reach Omaha-was
"That's true."
"Goddamn it, Boyle, give me some facts!
How is Miss Dorn? How's her state of
mind?"
"About what you'd expect it to be. It's obvious
Dorn wasn't the most admirable parent in the world.
But he was her father."
"Is she calm?"
"Under the circumstances, I'd say she's quite
calm."
"Resentful? Does she blame the railroad?"
"Not that I'm aware. She's humiliated because she
fell to pieces. And of course she's hurting."
Nor is she the only one.
He bent forward. "General, I'd like to ask a question.
May I have leave to quit the gang?"
"Quit? You may not! I need every man."
"I meant only for a few days. I expect the
Dorns
"To Every Purpose Under Heaven"bledgc
will be leaving for Grand Island as soon as possible.
The boy's doing all he can to look after his sister, but
he's hardly old enough to provide adequate
protection on the trip. Someone should go with them.
Armed."
"Someone who could urge her cooperation along the
way?"
Casement's flinty stare told Michael the terms
of the bargain had been proposed.
"Yes. Considering what you've said about the importance
of the next six or eight weeks, it wouldn't bother
my conscience to do that."
Casement scratched his beard. "How far do you
propose to travel with her?"
"As far as Kearney. East of there, she and
her brother should be relatively safe. Cooperation
aside, General, I believe we owe Miss
Dorn that protection. She's tended men who were
injured."
"You don't have to remind me. She's a fine
person." He pondered. "AH right, you can go."
"I'll need guns. A Spencer. Several
magazines of ammunition. A revolver."
"I'll sign the order tonight. Now. What does
Miss Dorn propose to do with her father's
remains?" "Why, remove them to Grand Island, I
suppose." "I don't want that body seen
by anyone in Grand Island. Any half-witted
mortician who's been out here more than thirty days
could guess what sort of weapon killed Dorn."
Casement's voice grew sterner; more businesslike.
"Talk to her again this evening. Tell her the corpse
will putrefy before she gets it to Grand Island.
Tell her a burial here will be much easier on her
than riding home with a decomposing body. Since-was
Again he hitched himself higher in the bunk. "comsince
I don't intend to be lying here much longer, I
recommend we bury Dorn and Worthing at dawn.
I"ve read the service."
"All right, let me see what I can do.
I wonder, though-was
"Wonder what?"
"Do you think you should be up quite so soon?"
"Tomorrow is a work day. We have Monday's track
to lay-and the balance of Friday's. I'll be up."
Michael rose. "Very well. I'll speak
to Miss Dorn immediately."
"And tactfully. Tactfully!"
"Of course."
"On your way out, fetch me a pen and some paper from
the desk. I'll write your gun requisition-and
begin drafting my report. A friendly visit by a
few Cheyenne -"
His mouth twisted. Michael detected guilt in
Casement's eyes.
comfollowing which, a quarrel developed amongst the men.
Worthing and Dorn were the casualties. It's the
eastern money I'm thinking about. The meridian. The
excursion-was
His eyes almost pleaded for understanding.
"Yes, sir," Michael answered, feeling weary
as he stepped out of the lamplight to the adjoining
office. He rummaged on Casement's littered
desk.
It's the eastern money I'm thinking about.
It's winning the war I'm thinking about.
Always, the object was to win, no matter what the cost
in lies, or human lives, or human misery.
For him, the price was growing too high.
Perhaps great enterprises automatically meant
conflict. The saving of the Union, the binding together of the
oceans with iron cords-perhaps each required a
warlike attitude for success.
And clearly Casement wasn't entirely happy with
what he had to do, even though he wanted to see the"
line go through.
Michael understood human motives and human
"To Every Purpose Under Heaven"bledge
progress were seldom pure. Amanda Kent, whose
ruthlessness had sometimes tarnished her idealism, had
taught him that. So he didn't scorn Casement
too much as he delivered the paper and pen before saying
good night. He too believed the line should go through.
But he didn't know how much longer he could fight this
different but still sanguinary war. He didn't know how
much longer he could pay the personal price of
constant struggle and no peace.
The canvas-wrapped bodies of Gustav Dorn and
Leonidas Worthing lay side by side between two
shallow trenches dug near the right of way.
Despite the unpopularity of both men, death
demanded respect; almost the entire camp had turned
out to stand silently under the vast, cloudless sky
sprinkled with paling stars. A clean, sweet wind
blew out of the northwest. To the east the treeless
prairie was reddening.
Michael stood across the circle from Hannah
Dorn. She'd proved cooperative-more
accurately, indifferent comab Casement's scheme,
and agreed to be. evasive about her father's death when
she returned to Grand Island.
She looked tired but composed. She'd put on her
shapeless coat again. Her hat hung from her right hand.
Her left rested on her brother's shoulder. He was
trying not to cry. Hannah's eyes, a little shinier
than usual, betrayed her own grief.
Casement read from Hannah's Bible. She had
selected the passages.
was "To very thing there is a season, and a time to every
purpose under the heaven:" his
Michael's head was bowed just far enough to permit him
to watch her. His red bandana snapped in the wind.
Away in the east he heard the hoot of the iron
train,
rolling in early. To his left, Sean
Murphy scratched his armpit, then blushed when
Greenup Williams and Christian, propped on
a handmade crutch, both noticed.
was "A time to be born, and a time to die; a time
to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is
planted!""
He believed he knew why Hannah had asked
Casement to read from Ecclesiastes. After Sunday's
almost senseless violence, she needed reassurance that
there was a divine reason for one of those lumpy
canvas sacks; a reason why a man who had
tried to find a place in a new land had failed and
perished.
As far as Michael was concerned, drunkenness and a
vile temper were the causes of Dorn's death. He
sought no other explanation, and certainly found no
hidden purpose in the event; not even while listening
to words from the holiest of books.
was "A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break
down, and a time to buildup;""
Casement sounded uncomfortable with the sonorous'
language. Michael lost track of the next few
verses, pondering earlier ones.
A time to kill. A time to heal.
A time to break down. A time to build up-
From First Manassas to the Wilderness, he'd seen the
killing and the breaking down. He'd come out here not only
to escape the memory of Julia but also to have a hand in
building something worthwhile. Now he was utterly
disillusioned. The price of helping to build the
U-Pay was confronting a Leonidas Worthing.
The price was more killing. The price was another war.
Maybe that was the way of the world. The only way.
Dear Lord, what a hateful idea! He yearned
to believe it wasn't true. But every scrap of
evidence accumulated during the past few years said
it was.
His earlier enthusiasm about his unofficial adoption
into the Kent family was gone. He had no idea as
to how he'd use the money he would some day inherit.
In
"To Every Purpose Under Heaven"bledgg
fact he had no interest in it, because there was no longer
any hope of discovering personal peace, or a way
to conduct his life that didn't involve brutal
struggle.
Still, he had to do something. This battleground was
surely no worse than another he might stumble
into if he were stupid enough to repeat his earlier mistake
and again flee in the hope of finding a calm
haven.
There was none.
was "comA time to love, and a time to hate; a time of
war, and a time of peace.""
A lie, he thought. God have mercy on me, but that
last is a lie.
in
Casement's pause was a signal to the men he'd
chosen earlier. Michael, Artemus Corkle,
Sean Murphy, and five others stepped forward.
Four of them handled each of the canvas bags. They
lowered the bodies into the trenches with great care.
Michael picked up a shovel from a pile brought
to the grave site late in the night. The whistle
wailed in the east. A pillar of smoke rose on
the brilliant red horizon.
While Casement turned to the New Testament,
moistening his thumb nervously on his tongue several
times, Michael and the others began shoveling dirt
into Dorn's trench. Casement sounded hoarse as he
resumed, reading this time from one of the Gospels. St.
John, Michael thought it was.
"Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise
again. Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall
rise again in the resurrection at the last
day." his
Chunk, a shovel of dirt landed on the sack.
Michael heard a soft outburst of sobbing from
Klaus Dorn and glanced up as Casement continued
to read. Hannah
was watching Michael with a curious expression whose
meaning he couldn't interpret well.
For a few moments he didn't hear Casement's
words. Hannah's look had captured him. There was
pain in it. But there was doubt too.
Did she believe what Casement was quoting? Her
faith was strong. Or had been. Was it still? Somehow
he hated to see her tested so severely. Her faith
was her whole way of life.
"Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection,
and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were
dead, yet shall he live.
And whosoever-""
The whistle screamed. Hannah's head turned, her
eyes furious at the intrusion.
But the supply train wouldn't stop. The work wouldn't
stop. Otherwise men-and women-would grieve too
long. Accomplish nothing. Permit a bitter'
sense of futility to drain them of hope, as
Michael was drained. He inverted his
shovel, chunk, full of impotent anger all at
once.
comwhosoever liveth,"" Casement repeated, louder
because of the whistle, ""comand believeth in me shall never
die.""
Slowly he closed the book.
"Amen."
Michael flung one more load of dirt into the trench.
The canvas was nearly hidden. Sean Murphy
leaned on his shovel handle and crossed himself.
Michael found his own hand rising, making the holy
sign he'd traced so infrequently since his
childhood. In his heart and mind, a strange,
unexpected prayer stirred.
He prayed that Hannah Dorn, a decent
woman, would not grieve too long, or have her faith
destroyed as his had been.
"To Every Purpose Under Heaven"bledgi
iv
When the trenches were covered, men set crude wooden
crosses in place. Michael walked to Hannah
and Klaus.
He waited until a small group of workers had
offered their shy, clumsy condolences and melted away
into the larger crowd Casement was leading toward
the train. Finally the last man, Christian, hobbled
off. Michael stood awkwardly silent, his shovel
canted over his shoulder and his neckerchief fluttering
in the breeze.
"What is it, Mr. Boyle?"
To his relief, she was dry-eyed; her pain was
con-tamed.
"Whenever you're ready to go-tonight, tomorrow -"
The whistle of the iron train interrupted him.
Hannah spun again, sunrise reddening her eyes.
She crammed the floppy brimmed hat on her head
and gazed with loathing at the smoke plume.
At last her features smoothed. "The sooner
I'm away from this despicable place, the better
I'll feel."
"I can't say I blame you."
"You don't like it either?"
"After yesterday? Not much. I think I told you I
came out here because I was sick of fighting, and all
I've done is fight."
"Leave."
He sounded as he felt-despondent:
"And go where? Where will it be any different?"
She looked at him sympathetically. He was ashamed
of revealing his weakness; his nakedness of soul.
He turned away and laid the shovel on the earth.
Thankfully, she forgot his inadvertent admission when
the whistle bellowed again. Over its noise, her
voice turned hard:
"I'll have the tent packed and the mules hitched in
half an hour."
The Coming of the Godless
AT TWELVE-MILE INTERVALS,
special crews following the railhead had erected
pine-jacketed water tanks beside the track. The
sun was setting that evening when Michael, Hannah,
and Klaus made camp in the shade of one such
tank. It resembled a primitive wash tub on
thick timber legs, and looked incongruous on the
rolling prairie; an ugly intrusion of
civilization.
While Michael and Klaus unfolded and raised the
tent, Hannah laid a fire" to heat coffee and
broke out jerked beef and biscuits. Michael was
using a stone to hammer a peg when he heard a creak
of wheels south of the right of way. He dropped the
stone and shot out his hand.
"Klaus. The rifle."
Hannah hurried to his side. "What's wrong?"
Still crouched, Michael put the Spencer beside
his boot. "As yet, nothing."
A wagon drawn by mules rolled through purple
shadows on the east side of a round hill. A
tarpaulin had come unhitched on the rear of the
wagon's bed. As the wagon creaked into the glare of
sunset light, the breeze flapped the tarp and
revealed slabs of black-speckled meat.
An Indian clad in a hide shirt and leggings
drove the mule team. Beside the lead wheel closest
to the track rode a lean white man on a wiry
pony. He was in his early twenties, wearing a
threadbare flannel shirt without
a collar and trousers held up by suspenders. Long
hair visible under his plainsman's hat shone fair
in the sunset.
Michael breathed faster. The two men took note
of the campers but made no sign of greeting. The
white man's saddle was equipped with what looked like
a handmade leather scabbard divided into two
sections. The stocks of a pair of buffalo guns
jutted from it. The Indian had a third rifle on
the seat.
Wagon and rider soon passed close enough for
Michael to note the white man's gaunt,
high-cheekboned face. It was curiously
familiar. He was sure he'd seen it before, but
didn't know where. Maybe the man looked like a
Union soldier he'd met briefly and forgotten.
The black specks proved to be flies swarming on
the raw slabs of meat.
"I thought they were hunters," Michael nodded.
"Is that buffalo in the wagon?" Klaus wanted
to know.
"Appears to be. Notice the bundle of hides
there at the back?"
"Are they going to the railhead, Michael?"
Hannah asked.
"I assume so. Probably to sell the meat."
Klaus looked disappointed. "They're not going
to stop."
"Just as well," Hannah told him. "They're
carrying too many guns for honest men."
Michael scratched his moustache. "Odd combination, a
white and a Sioux. At least the other one's chunky
enough to be a Sioux."
"Sure don't look friendly," Klaus murmured,
just as the white man jerked two fingers to his hat
brim to acknowledge their presence. Then he booted his
mount and sped west raising dust.
The Indian whipped the mules with the reins.
The wagon rapidly grew smaller. Michael still
felt he'd seen
the white hunter before. But he couldn't pinpoint a time
or place. He relaxed and forgot about it when the
travelers disappeared, leaving only a haze to mark
their passage.
Presently the three sat down to eat. Michael
kept the Spencer within easy reach. He'd also
fetched a borrowed Colt from the wagon and buckled
the holster belt around his hips.
Klaus munched a biscuit, drank some coffee,
yawned, and said goodnight. A moment later the
lantern Hannah had hung inside the tent went
out.
Twilight was rapidly deepening into darkness.
Hannah clasped her hands around her knees and
gazed at Michael through the tatters of flame. Her
strained expression finally compelled a response.
"Are you feeling any better, Miss Dorn?"
"Better than I was this morning. By the way, you're
perfectly entitled to call me Hannah."
"Thank you. I've been concerned about you. You've said
so little all day. I know your father's death wasn't
easy to bear."
"I'll bear it. I believe the words
General Casement read from St. John."
"I admire your-conviction-as I think I noted when
we first talked."
"Then you've no faith in life after death?"
"Let's say my view on that is more a question than
an opinion."
"But you aren't without a belief in something. You will be
going back to the line?"
"Yes. For want of anything better to do."
Hannah swept off her hat and laid it on the
parched grass near the fire. "Do you know what I was
thinking about while we drove?" He shook his head.
"The passage from Ecclesiastes. I believe those
words too. I believe there must have been a reason for
Papa's death."
Although the theological waters were growing a bit
deep, Michael said, "You mean some purpose
to it?"
"Exactly."
He was dubious: "What is it, then?"
"Why, I-I don't know." She glanced away.
He had the feeling she knew the answer but was
unwilling to reveal it. Spots of color in her
cheeks reinforced the suspicion.
"Tell me, Mr. Boyle-was
"Fair's fair. If I'm to call you Hannah,
you must call me Michael."
An appreciative smile. "All right,
Michael." The sound of it was pleasing. "I'd like
to know a bit more about you. Did you leave a family
to come west?"
"Only my adopted family. The Kents. I
believe I mentioned them."
"Yes. They were people you admired-was
"Some of them."
"Have you ever been married?"
The question was so matter-of-fact, he was stunned. Why
the devil would a woman who'd just lost her father be
interested in such a subject?
"No, never," he answered. "There is-was-a
woman, but she-ah. Best we forget it. May I
have more coffee?"
She poured with a steady hand. He was conscious of the
intimacy of the fire, and of the handsome curve of her
full bosom beneath the shabby coat that grew taut when
she leaned forward.
He heard a rustle and a series of rapid thumps
south of the track. Possibly one of the huge plains
jackrabbits bounding by. All the red light had
leached from the west. A thousand stars shone, but
none quite so bright as the blue-gray eyes of the woman
close to him.
How lovely she if by firelight.
"You seemed upset a moment ago," Hannah said
as
she returned the pot to the coals. "I didn't
mean to intrude in a delicate area."
He waved. "No intrusion. I just prefer not
to discuss the woman."
"Why?"
A sadly cynical smile. "If I told you the
tedious truth, it wouldn't enhance my already low standing in
your eyes."
This time her smile was disarming. "Your standing is not low
at all, Michael. What is the truth?"
Lord, she had a way of digging into a man!
"I joined Meagher's Irish Brigade to escape
an altogether sordid situation. If you must know, I
coveted another man's wife-which I believe is
definitely frowned upon by the Bible."
The coffee tasted as bitter as his mood had become.
He shouldn't be revealing his past to a virtual
stranger, yet he was. Perhaps he was like Casement
discussing his report. Perhaps he secretly wanted
a judgment about the degree of his guilt.
Against all good sense, he kept on:
"The relationship was, in fact, adulterous. Which
makes me a violator of more than one commandment,
does it not?"
Asking for scorn, he got none:
"Christ says all men can be forgiven. Did the
woman love you?"
"No."
"But you loved her."
"I wanted her. I don't know if it was the same
thing as love."
"Do you think of her a great deal?"
He started to lie; changed his mind.
"All the time."
"Does she write you?"
"Never. She doesn't know where I am. Or
care."
A long silence.
"When you've finished your work out here, are you going
East to look for her?" "She's still married." "That
isn't quite an answer." Sometimes I want to go, but-
"The answer is no."
"So the truth is, you didn't come out here just
to compensate for what you did in the war. You were running
away."
"Hannah Dorn," he exclaimed with a sharpness
leavened by a smile, "you can't be interested in my
personal life at a time like this!"
"Oh, yes," she nodded, smiling too. One of those
dazzling smiles that softened her sternness and made her
look so beautiful. "Every man, every human being, has
something of interest to tell. But I'm sorry if my
questions offended you."
He stretched out, leaning on his elbow. "Not at
all. It's just that my story's-well-it's entirely
in the past." "What about your future?"
"Beyond the railroad, I have none. Time we changed
the subject. Will you and Klaus be staying in Grand
Island?"
"Yes. I'll take over the store and run it as
best I can. The store is part of the reason I was
thinking so hard on Ecclesiastes all afternoon. Perhaps
God meant Papa to die so I could do something about the
chaos he made of the business."
He would have laughed, except that you didn't laugh
at someone bereaved and groping for answers. Softly,
she continued:
"Perhaps I can turn it into a profitable enterprise,
then do something for Klaus. Papa never permitted
Klaus to think about attending a college.
Papa didn't consider education worthwhile. 1 d.
If the store succeeds, I might be able to send
Klaus East for a year or two-was
Another smile. "You've maneuvered me into talking
about myself."
"I'm interested in your plans," he said, meaning it.
"Maybe the terrible business yesterday will mean the
start of better times for you and your brother."
"In certain circumstances, that's entirely
possible."
She was staring at him again. He couldn't understand why she
acted embarrassed.
Abruptly she scrambled up, snatched her hat,
and walked toward the tent. Her cheeks were pink again.
But her voice held no trace of emotion:
"I'd like to rest now. Will you be comfortable out here?"
"Quite comfortable."
"Good night, then."
"Good night, Hannah."
The tent flap fell. He was unexpectedly
depressed not to have her still with him, sharing the fire's
warmth; sharing deep feelings it was a relief to speak
aloud at last.
Quickly, though, puzzling questions intruded. Why in the
world did she want to know about his past and his
future? And why had she suddenly grown so nervous
about the drift of the conversation?
He had no idea. But he was positive she'd
been probing his background for a reason.
He left the Spencer near the fire and walked to the
wagon a few yards from the tank. Starlight glinted
on the rails. Somewhere a wild bird warbled. The
tethered mules twitched their ears and snorted as he
approached.
The liquor barrels, two sound and two broken,
had been stripped from the wagon and left behind. He
reached over the tailboard and found the small canvas
bag in which he'd packed a fresh shirt, his razor,
his
churchwarden, and tobacco. He lit the pipe and
strolled in a wide circle so Hannah wouldn't
catch a whiff of the immoral smoke. As he
puffed, a frown deepened on his forehead.
Blast it, that woman wants something of me. What
is it?
And why the devil do I care all at once?
He could find no adequate answer disfor either question,
even though he asked them endlessly as he sat on
guard beside the fire all night long.
They started east at sunup. Michael
tied his red bandana around his forehead because it promised
to be a hot day. About eight, they spied a
peculiar caravan coming toward them. Two open
phaetons, dilapidated but serviceable, following
the track.
The first carriage was piled high with portmanteaus,
crates, and what appeared to be folded canvas.
The driver, a bearded, vacant-eyed young man, had
a buck-and-ball shotgun resting across his lap.
In charge of the second phaeton was a man of quite a
different sort. About forty; heavy-set; red-faced.
Points of a scraggly moustache hung below his jaw.
He wore one of the short untapered sack coats that
had been introduced about ten years earlier but were still
considered cheap and ostentatious in some circles. The
color of the one-button coat matched that of the thin
brown lines forming large checks on the man's gray
trousers.
A black silk cravat spilled over the top of
his red velvet waistcoat. His hat, cocked at a
jaunty angle, was hard brown felt with a red band
and a crown shaped like half a melon. An English
hat. Michael didn't know the correct name. It
was sometimes called a bowler, after the hatter who'd
designed it, or a derby, after the
earl who'd adopted it and given it social
approval. He'd seen many of the hats back east.
While the first phaeton continued on, the flashy
gentleman reined in his plodding team. Beside him, a
pale, coarsely attractive girl fanned herself
with a lace handkerchief.
The girl was barely Klaus' age, but she was
dressed as if she were twice that. Her wrinkled
bloomer frock was orange-dyed organdy. Matching
Turkish pantaloons showed beneath the short skirt.
A black velveteen bodice, tight on her
large breasts, had been repaired several times. The
ribbons dangling from her wide-brimmed straw hat
were frayed at the ends.
In the second seat, also facing forward, sat two
other women, thirty or thirty-five. One had a
faint moustache and a heavy scattering of pockmarks
on her cheeks. All three females looked
uncomfortable in their heavy, gaudy clothing.
The fellow in the melon hat smiled. But his dark
eyes had the warmth of lumps of unlit coal. Again
Michael had encountered someone he thought he'd seen
before, and again he couldn't recall where.
"Good morning, friends," the man said. "Brown's the
name."
The man swept off his hat and tipped it. Before he
set it back on his hairless head Michael saw a
bruise and a diagonal white scar on the
sunburnt scalp. Recognition came instantly.
"Could I trouble you to tell us whether it's far to the
railhead?" Brown asked.
"No, it isn't." Michael was conscious of
Hannah sitting stiffly beside him. Brown's three
traveling companions surveyed her clothing and
unpainted face with amused looks. Back in the bed
of the wagon, Klaus was goggling.
"You'll make it before dark," Michael added.
"Thanks kindly. We're anxious to get there and
set up."
"And get these goddamn hot clothes off," the young
girl said. Brown's glance made her cringe..
The pockmarked woman laughed. "Nancy's always
eager to go to work."
Hannah clenched her hands in her lap. Brown
turned, his smile fixed but his eyes furious.
"Alice, be so kind as to keep your language
decent."
The woman looked as terrified as the girl. She
swallowed and lowered her eyes as Brown said
to Hannah:
"Very sorry for the impropriety, ma'am."
To Michael: "I'm positive we've run
into each other before."
"We have."
"Where?"
"A card palace in Omaha. You won a big
pot and were in a generous mood. You bought everyone at
the bar a stein of lager."
Brown snapped his fingers. "That's it. You were standing
right next to me. Going out to work on the line."
"Correct."
Brown's smile changed again, growing unctuous.
"Still there?"
"I'll be returning in a day or two."
"Then perhaps we'll have the pleasure of renewing
acquaintances. When we do, I'd appreciate a
favor."
"Such as?"
"Such as your confining your remarks about our first meeting
to what we just discussed. My winning that pot. Buying
a round. Forget the rest."
He spoke in a casual tone. No one would have
construed his remarks as a threat-unless they'd seen his
eyes.
Michael shrugged in a noncommittal
way. Brown looked less than pleased.
By now the young girl was paying attention to the
Irishman. He was mortified when she smiled and
let her gaze range up his legs to his groin.
Then she looked him in the eye and slowly licked her
painted lower lip. He could feel Hannah's
shoulder tremble with tension.
"Safe journey to you," Brown said. "Hah!" He
flicked the reins to start the team.
IV
Turning, Hannah watched the phaetons bounce
along westward. When she spoke, her voice
seethed:
"I knew Papa would only be the first."
Michael shrugged again. "With a project as big as the
railroad, you must expect enterprise of all
sorts."
"Enterprise! Godless people, that's what they are. That
Brown looks absolutely vicious."
"He is."
"He hinted about something that happened in Omaha-was
"He has quite a reputation there. The night we met,
he proved he deserves it."
"Is he a sharp?"
"What's a sharp, Hannah?" Klaus
asked.
"A gambler."
"Among other things," Michael nodded. "He was
referring to an incident that took place shortly after
he stood everyone to drinks. He was caught cheating
at stud poker."
"Who caught him?"
"A poor fat fellow from the U-Pay roundhouse.
Brown had bilked him before. He was watching for hidden
cards; he claimed he saw them. With some friends
urging him on, he swung a punch. Brown charged
around the table bellowing about his honor. He half
killed the U-Pay lad with his head."
"His head?"
"Didn't you see the scar and the bruise when he
took off his hat? The barkeep called him Butt
Brown. Butt, two that's. Apparently he can
well nigh destroy a man with his fists and his
skull. The U-Pay chap lasted half a
minute. Brown would have left him dead or crippled
if others hadn't intervened. Before I left
Omaha, I heard Brown has killed at least
four men. his
Hannah shuddered. "Filth. And Papa wanted
to mix with them. Do business just as they do-was
Klaus was tugging at her arm. "What is it?"
"Who were those women? Do they work for the railroad?"
Michael wanted to laugh but felt it wiser
to refrain. "My boy, they certainly do. At least
that's their intention. In polite company, Mr.
Brown's damsels are known as soiled doves."
"If you please, Mr. Boyle! He's not old
enough."
"Not old enough? I disagree! If he goes East
to school, or even if he remains in Grand
Island, I'm sure he'll see more and more of such
women. You'll have to explain eventually."
"Explain what?" Klaus insisted.
"He said eventually!" Hannah snapped.
"Mr. Boyle?"
"No, Klaus. I bow to your sister."
"Thank you." She was still simmering. Klaus sighed and
crawled to the rear of the wagon.
Michael picked up the reins and set the wagon in
motion. "For weeks we've been hearing there would be
sharps and whor-uh, persons of questionable moral character coming
out to set up tents and travel with us."
"And you'll soon be back among that kind!"
The rancor in her voice made him caustic:
"I take it you disapprove of card playing
along with tobacco?"
"I do."
Irked, Michael craned his head to make certain
Klaus was occupied. The boy was glumly staring at
the dust cloud left by the phaetons.
"Tell me, Miss Dorn. Do you also disapprove
of what's discreetly referred to as congress between men
and women?"
She whirled on him. "Are you trying to make me out
a prude, Mr. Boyle?"
"Inquiring! Merely inquiring!"
"Evidently you think I'm a prude because I
believe in the Bible?"
"Some say the two go hand in hand."
She stared straight ahead again. "I admit I
despise women of the kind that aroused such curiosity
on your part."
"Curiosity? Dammit, I was only being
polite!"
"That young slu-young woman had something on her mind
besides social intercourse."
"What the hell is this? Why do I have to answer
to you?"
"You" don't. But you're too fine a man to squander
your life among-was She bit her lip.
"I've said too much. I'm sorry."
He let out a long breath. "The fault's mine.
I had no right to mock your beliefs."
"I shouldn't have expressed them so tactlessly. I
know the Lord said to forgive women like that. I try-but I
hate the way they cheapen one of God's finest
gifts! Sell it, like a measure of flour-was
He was still sufficiently piqued to say, "This fine
gift you mention-you speak of it only in the abstract,
I suppose?"
A quick look over her shoulder; Klaus was paying
no attention.
"If you mean have I slept with a man. I have not. But
I talked at length with Mama on the subject.
Crude as Papa was, she said he still brought her a
great deal of-Boyle, you're blushing! Who's the
prude?"
A smile softened the retort and broke the tension.
He laughed, then raised a hand.
"Guilty. You took me by surprise. You take
me by surprise quite-often."
"That," she declared, "is because people are not books containing
just a single page to be understood in one quick reading."
He chuckled. "No, I'm certainly discovering
that's true of you."
"You might think me disinterested in-the topic you
brought up. On the contrary, I'm not. At the
proper time, in the proper place, my husband
won't find me wanting. He'll find me
inexperienced. But-not without ardor. Not without-oh,
fiddle!" she cried, utterly flustered.
The exclamation caught Klaus' attention.
"Hannah, I never heard you cuss before."
"I was not cursing!"
"But you came close." He was grinning.
"You be still!" A whisper. "We mustn't discuss it
any further."
"All right," he agreed, even though he thought
turnabout only fair play. Last evening she'd
asked a good many personal questions, for a reason he was
just beginning to guess-with considerable discomfort.
Or am a conceited oaf? Flattering myself?
He thought it wise to try to lighten the conversation. He
rolled the tip of his tongue in his cheek.
"Actually, you need have no fear about my virtue when
I go back to work. I don't patronize women
such as Mr. Brown employs. Nor am I
particularly fond of gambling. In fact I have no
intention of honoring Brown's request. I'll warn
my friends about him. No sense in them
squandering their wages and betting against a man who wins
nine times out of ten. I watched him that night. He
lost on an average of once every twenty minutes.
For the sake of effect. I don't doubt."
"You see? That only proves the railhead's an
ungodly place and will obviously grow worse.
There are better and safer places a man could spend
his time."
"What places?"
She didn't answer.
"What places, Hannah?"
"If it isn't clear to you by now-was
Her lips pressed together. "Never mind.8backslash
Angry at herself, or him-or both-she pointed
east.
"Drive faster."
He did. His wild suspicions hadn't been so
wild after all.
At first he was astonished. Then be was touched. But that
mood quickly vanished. He knew how a forest
animal must feel coming across a hunter's iron
trap directly in its path.
He'd have disgotten angry all over again if what
she wanted hadn't been so upsetting.
The Vow
NEXT MORNING HANNAH left Klaus
asleep and came down from the campsite on the edge
of Kearney to see him aboard the westbound supply
train.
Full daylight was still a good half-hour away.
Only two lamps glowed in the improvised huts
and unpainted plank buildings that straggled along the
north side of the river opposite the old infantry
stockade.
The air was chilly. Pungent wood smoke
drifted back from the locomotive as Michael
approached a stake-sided flatcar loaded with
rails tied down with heavy rope. There were four such
cars between the tender and two boxcars at the end of the
train.
He'd spent the night outside the tent again,
wrestling with cold blankets and sleeplessness. He
felt edgy and tired as he laid the Spencer and
canvas pouch on the stacked rails. When he
turned back, Hannah took him by surprise.
She leaned forward and gave his cheek a quick, chaste
kiss.
He was speechless for several moments. Then all he
could do was blurt, "Why-thank you, Hannah
Dorn."
She ignored the forced levity in his voice. "You've
been very kind, Michael. Despite all you say
about being irreligious, you're a good and compassionate
man. I apologize for my temper when we met that
Mr. Brown. You're not like him. It was shameful of
me to imply that you are."
"I appreciate the compliment, but it isn't necessary."
"It is. I don't want you believing I'm nothing
but a prude."
He caught her nervous hands between his palms.
"Believe me, Hannah, no one faults you for
your principles, least of all me. God-uh,
heaven knows I could use some of my own."
She glanced toward the locomotive. Sparks rose
and vanished above the stack. "I hardly slept last
night." She covered her eyes. "Oh, I'm such
a clumsy, graceless person. I don't know how
to do this."
"Do what?"
"Tell you-was He felt her hands tighten within his.
"You'll laugh."
"No."
Her eyes caught starlight. "Last night, I-I
prayed for hours. There is a purpose for everything.
Even for Papa being struck down as he
was-Michael," she interrupted herself, "where will you go
when construction's shut down?"
"I suppose 111 stay at the winter camp,
wherever that may be."
"Stay with all those sinful people?"
"What else should I do?"
In a quick burst of breath, she said, "Come back to
Grand Island. I can make the store succeed if I
have a
man to help me. I told you I prayed. I
repeated the
words from Ecclesiastes over and over."
Her speech grew less breathy; became soft and
direct:
"I know now Papa's death came so there'd be room
for another man. You were meant to take his place."
Once again he couldn't speak. He was shaken to the
center of his being. He'd already concluded this might be the
reason behind yesterday's questioning-not to mention her flirtation
with the subject of sex.
He tried to pierce her air of certainty with another
little laugh.
"Miss Dorn, permit me to say with all
politeness, you're touched in the head."
"No, I'm not. You're a man looking
for a place, Michael Boyle. God has
revealed it."
Hostile all at once because he felt threatened
by her confidence, he exclaimed, "Not to me! My
place is up the line, pushing those rails to the
meridian. Do you realize I'm thirty-six years
old? Before I'm too blasted feeble to do anything but
sit in a chair and look back at all my
mistakes-all the years I spent taking human
life-I want once-once!-to know I've done
something worthwhile. Something!"
"Do it, then. But start back before the snows are too
deep for travel."
"You're the damnedest woman I ever met!" "I
would appreciate your not cursing. This is too
serious."
The whistle tooted. One of the train's two
brakemen waved his lantern from beside the last car.
"Come back and help me build a good store. Then
another. Those godless people will keep moving west, chasing
the easy money. The territory will soon be ready for
civilized things. Where we live, we'll help
build a town. A fine, decent one."
An impulse to say yes swept over him. He
fought it. "No, Hannah." "Why not?"
"I can't, that's all." "Why not? Am I
unattractive?" "You're very attractive. But-was
He was unable to finish. Honesty would only hurt
her. But she'd been hurt already. A tear sparkled
on her face. Angrily, she wiped it away.
"You don't think you could ever love me? I don't
expect you to love me now, Michael."
"Hannah, stop!" "You love that other woman."
"No," he lied. "But I like you too much to pretend
I feel anything more."
"Love will come. Give it a chance. Give me a
chance."
She flung an arm around his neck and kissed him on
the mouth with unmistakable passion. He felt the
sweet curve of her breasts against his body, then her
tears on his face.
With her mouth still close to his, she whispered,
"I've love enough for both of us. Come back."
"And if it didn't work, and I left again? I'd
hurt you worse than I'm doing right now."
"I'll accept the risk."
He shook his head. "I would never subject you to that
kind of uncertainty, that kind of-was
The whistle howled.
He seized two of the stakes and hauled
himself up to the rails. The train lurched forward.
The trucks began to click slowly. Spark-filled
smoke gusted around him. Through it, he heard her
call, "Before the snow!
The smoke cleared. As the last car passed she
stepped to the center of the track and waved.
Damn! He didn't love her. Better to hurt
her again, this moment, than subject her to prolonged
pain. He shook his head in an exaggerated way.
She couldn't mistake the finality of it. Yet her
head remained unbowed and she blew him a kiss, as
if she were supremely confident.
He sat down on the stacked rails and watched her
figure shrink in the starry dawn. Soon she was a
speck against the widening band of red-gold on the
eastern horizon. Then she was gone.
He tried to excuse himself for hurting her by summoning
anger.
"I'll be damned and double-damned. That queer,
Bible-reading girl did bait a trap as if 1 were
some woods animal!"
The anger didn't help. He almost wished he could
have jumped right between the trap's jaws. She was a
fine, handsome woman. But he didn't love her
enough.
Love?
To the best of his recollection, it was the very first time
he'd thought the word in connection with his unexpected
fondness for her. He had lost his heart just a little,
without realizing it. But what he felt for her wasn't
enough to make him change his mind about returning to the
railhead.
The iron train gathered speed on the Nebraska
plain. Far to his right, a herd of shaggy buffalo
swept down from a ridge, trampling the earth loudly
enough to be heard above the train's roar. Flickering
light from the firebox reddened his cheeks as he stood
up and faced west, one hand on a stake, his feet
braced wide apart. The change of position didn't
help clear his mind of the confusion.
That woman is mad!
No, in her own way, that woman is as strong as
Amanda Kent.
Handsome, too.
And not nearly so pious as she pretends. He well
remembered the fervent feel of her mouth.
He tried contempt.
Outrageous, the way she picked a husband!
"God's made a place!" Fancy such nerve!
She wouldn't say ifs nerve, she'd say
it's faith.
And would it be so bad a place?
I cannot go there under false colors! About that, he was
adamant.
Yet he was beginning to loathe himself for having hurt her
so badly.
The buffalo veered off and vanished in the north. The
train swayed. He gripped the stake tightly
to keep from being hurled off.
The points of his moustache and the ends of his bandana
flicked against his face. He peered through the smoke and
specks of soot but never saw the vast prairie
rushing by.
That's all I do, hurt or kill others.
That is all I ever do.

Some eight miles further down the track, with the sun
clear of the horizon, he was startled from his bleak
reverie by a series of piercing blasts from the whistle.
He recognized the signal; the train was stopping.
On the roof of the last boxcar, the brakeman who'd
been sitting with his legs dangling over the side
struggled to turn the horizontal wheel, Its
vertical rod applied pressure to the primitive
brakes.
Iron squealed back there, then up front, where the
other brakie worked the wheel on the first flatcar.
He leaped to the second car as the couplers crashed
and the cars began to shunt against one another, slowing down
with the kind of erratic jerking that frequently caused a
break-in-two on a downgrade.
The front brakie pointed to the south. Michael
clambered to the top of the rails as the train came to a
standstill. Near the river turkey buzzards wheeled
and darted at the ground.
A queasy feeling fluttered his stomach. Where the
carrion birds swooped, patches of buffalo
grass shone bright red.
IV
He jumped down from the flatcar, his Spencer
cocked. The fireman had another, the engineer a
third. The two brakies-boys working their way up
from yard switchman to engineer-were unarmed. They
followed the older men, looking as bilious as
Michael felt. Suddenly he smelled the blood
stench.
"Appears to be a body lyin' out there," the
fireman said, swallowing. The men started running.
The noise sent the buzzards flapping away.
Michael's mouth was dry as he began
to glimpse white and red lumps strewn along the
bank. "More than one body."
"No horses-was the engineer muttered.
"And they'd have been on the other side of the river if
they was travelin' in a settler's wagon," the
engineer put in. "Buffla hunters, mebbe?
Chasing that herd we seen?"
They were a quarter mile south of the track now.
Michael nearly stumbled on a foot-wide rock
all but concealed in the waving grass. He glanced
down.
"Oh, Mother of God."
On the rock lay an ear cut from a human head.
Blood was drying brown in the breeze. Beside the ear
rested an eyeball, a crushed white globe with a
dark spot-the pupil-turned up to the light.
One of the brakies turned around and staggered back
toward the tracks, coughing up vomit and slopping his
trousers.
They found the remains of what they calculated to be
four men. At first Michael thought two of the
victims might be the pair he'd seen at the water
tank the preceding evening. Then he knew he was
wrong. None of the flesh was brown. And he spied no
wagon tracks.
There was little doubt the men were hunters, though.
Scraps of deerskin shirts and pants were scattered
everywhere. Not one body was whole.
A mutilated head rested against another stone. The
ears were gone, and the nose. The point of the chin had been
worked off with a knife or hatchet. The hair had
been lifted, and a pit opened in the top of the skull
so the brain-or part of it, slimy gray and fly
covered now-could be removed and placed beside it.
Michael could barely stand to look.
"Injuns?" the fireman asked.
"Yeah," the engineer said. "It's the way they work when
their tempers are up. I seen something similar once
before."
Wherever Michael stepped, he found more evidence of the
massacre. Amputated feet. Arms chopped at
the shoulders. Entrails twining through the grass like
lifeless red snakes. Mutilated genitals had
been placed on what remained of a torso. One
head covered with gashes still had part of an arrow jutting
from the mouth. The arrowhead had been driven up behind the
upper teeth and the shaft broken at midpoint.
Tears in his eyes, Michael finally lurched away
from the carnage. He was trembling.
Who had done it? Guns Taken and his
Cheyenne? It made little difference. The remains were
mute proof of the savage level to which the coining of the
railroad had raised the war between the whites and the
Plains tribes.
A conference was held, well away from the site of the
massacre. The engineer would report to Casement, and
ask for a work crew to come back, pick up the
remains, and search for identification. "We stay here
any longer, we'll be late to the railhead," the
engineer said. It was an excuse, but Michael was
thankful for it.
Soon the train was headed west again. The memory of
what he'd seen beat at Michael's mind. The
trembling returned. He was almost dispitched off the
flatcar
before he closed both hands on one of the stakes.
Jumbled images spun past his inner eye.
The trees of the Wilderness bursting afire.
A splendid green banner rumbling toward summer
grass, its wounded bearer trying to hold it aloft,
failing, and weeping as he stained the silken sunburst
with his blood.
Pickett's line, human wheat scythed down
slowly in the powder haze of a steamy July afternoon.
Worthing's face when Michael's bullet
hit him.
The dismembered bodies of men who must have known fear,
love, hope, laughter, and who had found death
by following the twin tracks of what purported to be
civilization-
Clutching at the stake, Michael cried, "Enough!"
Cannon thundered in his brain. All the hurt men of the
endless wars seemed to wail in chorus.
"Enough!"
The rear brakeman shouted something he didn't hear.
Slowly, he gained control of himself. He wiped his
tear-tracked face with the back of a hand.
It wasn't sufficient for a man to cry out against the
struggles that rent the land. A man had to do something more
than curse bloodletting when he too was
responsible for it-
A man had to do something to defy and defeat what he
detested. Amanda Kent had taught him that long
ago. He remembered the family motto. Take
a stand. Make a mark.
Seated again, he gazed at the sky.
 you're there, listen to me.
Never again will I knowingly hurt another person the
way I hurt Hannah Dorn.
Never again while 1 breathe will I lift my
hand against another human being, no matter what the
provocation.
Never.
At the railhead, Adolphus Brown was
supervising the raising of a large tent. The girls were
already inside, setting up cots, hanging canvas
partitions, and uncrating whiskey bottles.
Brown's half-witted young helper, Toby
Harkness, swung a sledge to peg the last guy
rope.
Although it was barely daylight, the feisty little
construction boss, Casement, had already called on
Brown to inform him his presence would be tolerated because
Casement realized the men required certain
diversions. But Brown was under orders not to open for
business until the end of the work day. Something else was
on Brown's mind at the moment, though.
Toby leaned on the sledge, grinning. "All done.
Butt? I said all done."
"Oh. Good. Now hang up the sign the way I
showed you."
"Boss, what's chewing on you this morning?"
Brown fanned himself with his hard felt hat. Going
to be a son of a bitching hot day.
"Boss?"
"That Paddy we encountered driving out here."
Toby scratched his beard. "Hell, he seemed
pretty harmless."
"Depends. He knows me from Omaha. Some of the
others here might also. They could talk. Discourage
trade."
"We got the place to ourselves!"
"Not for long. I know of three gents who'll be
arriving with their outfits inside of a week. In a
month, there'll be a small city of tents following
the line. We could end up sucking the hind tit."
"I promise you, Butt. Those micks get in our
way, I'll them do that, I'll talk to "em.
They don't listen-was Toby
caressed the handle of the sledge. "I'll talk a little
louder."
Adolphus Brown felt a burden lift. He
clapped his derby on his scarred head and laid an
arm across the younger man's shoulder. "Toby my boy,
you know what I'm thinking almost before I think it. That's
why I admire you."
Toby smiled in a way Brown found hilarious.
The lout had all the brains of a sparrow. Brown
managed to keep a straight face as Toby declared:
"Nobody ever admired me before I met
up with you."
"That was their mistake."
"Because some mick shoots off his mouth? If any of
fix 'em."
"And do a splendid job, too," Brown grinned as
they strolled toward the tent entrance. Inside,
Nancy and Alice were bickering like ruffled hens.
He must keep his patience. By sundown he'd have them
on their backs, with their attention focused on the
only spot where a woman's attention belonged.
"Yes, sir, a splendid job. I can count on that
as surely as I can count on a winner when I need
one."
He jutted his hand toward Toby's face. The
sleeve garter and attached elastic worked
perfectly, popping the spade ace into his fingers as
if it had materialized from the air.
Toby giggled like a child, grimy fingers over his mouth.
"Lordy, Butt." He giggled again. "Not out here where
everybody can see."
Brown pointed toward the dining car. "Everybody's in
there, stuffing. Getting ready to bust their asses and
lay a mile of track quick, so they can pay us a
visit. You get busy with that sign."
"Yes, sir," Toby said in an almost
worshipful way.
506The Warriors
Brown hid the card in a slit in his red velvet
waistcoat and entered the tent whistling. Toby was a
crackerjack. Stupid but a crackerjack. Any
Irishman who flapped his mouth about Omaha would
regret it.
Meridian 100
"DOWN!"
On Michael's signal, the five men lowered the
rail. About two and a half feet of it projected
beyond a splintered board stuck in the earth beside the right of
way. Faded white numerals were painted on the
board:

The moment the rail touched the ground, Sean Murphy
whirled to the crew on the other side of the grade.
"Beat you!" Disgruntled, they placed their rail as
Murphy wigwagged his arms and bellowed in the
direction of the perpetual train:
"It's done! We're past!"
Voice after voice took up the shout. A mass
insanity seemed to seize the hundreds of men strung
out at the railhead this crisp afternoon, the fifth of
October.
Christian, fully recovered, put his hands on his
waist, bent backwards, shut his eyes and wailed,
"Whoooaaah!" Artemus Corkle-permanently
on the crew now; Michael had replaced the
complaining O'Dey-ran down from the right of way,
performed two quick somersaults, then raised himself on
his palms and proceeded to walk with his legs in the
air, bleating like a calf.
"WHOOO-AAAAAAAH!" Christian howled again.
Jostled by screaming men, Michael accepted a maul
from one of them.
"Take a lick, Boyle. Someday you'll want
to show this place to your grandchildren."
With a melancholy smile, Michael hammered the
spike twice. He passed the maul to Murphy,
who was laughing and crying at the same time.
The shouting intensified, spreading eastward, picked
up by hundreds of throats. The engineer of the
locomotive behind the perpetual train doubled the
noise by blowing the whistle and ringing the bell.
In five minutes, all work had come to a stop.
Greenup Williams snagged Michael's waist and
hand, danced him around in a circle, then cupped his
mouth and yelled at the western horizon:
"We done it, Charlie Crocker! You
listenin"? Meridian one hundred! We'll be
all the way across the plains while you're still sitting
on your behind in those mountains!"
Guards atop the cars of the work train fired their
Spencers at the sky. North of the train, men and a
few women poured from a disorderly collection of
tents, the ever-growing movable town that packed itself
into wagons and buggies every day or so, following the
railhead. Someone had christened the tent village
Hell-on-wheels. It was appropriate,
Michael thought. All sorts of riffraff had been
attracted to it, exactly as Hannah had
prophesied. Sean Murphy was fond of telling the
more recent additions to the work force, "The place is
fast becoming civilized, several men having been
killed here already."
Michael had already had a run-in with one of the tent
town's citizens-Harkness, the dull-witted young
man, who worked for Butt Brown.
Harkness had caught Michael alone one
September evening when he was returning from a chat
with the drovers. He demanded Michael stop talking
to new workers about Brown's curious habit of winning
against all opponents.
Patiently Michael explained that he
never sought
opportunities to discuss Mr. Brown. Though he
didn't admit it, the fact was he'd only
volunteered information to a few close friends. The rest
of the time he merely answered newcomers' questions
honestly. He put Hark-ness on notice that
he'd continue to do so.
Evidently trade at Brown's Paradise was
already suffering because Harkness replied with threatening
language. He emphasized his warning by repeatedly
jabbing a finger into Michael's chest.
Michael's temper flared. But he suffered the rest
of the tirade, and a few more jabs, without resorting
to his fists. He meant to keep the pledge he'd
made on the car from Kearney.
Toby Harkness departed with a smirk on his face,
apparently convinced he'd been dealing with a coward.
Michael had already accepted the fact that such
opinions would be the price of fulfilling his vow-
Now Michael watched Butt Brown slip a
pepperbox derringer from his waistcoat and begin shooting
over his head. Further up the dirt street between the
tents and the train, he suddenly spied the white
buffalo hunter and his Sioux companion.
In August, the two had already been gone
by the time he returned to the railhead. Now they were
back, strolling and enjoying the celebration. The white
man waved his plainsman's hat once or twice,
and tipped it to a soiled dove in front of
Brown's Paradise. Even at a distance, a white
streak in the hunter's fair hair stood out
clearly.
Michael assumed the pair had brought in another
load of buffalo meat. He was still convinced he'd
met the white man during the war. He made up his
mind to inquire.
A troop of the cavalry now guarding the workers on a
full time basis galloped by, the men no more than
blurs in their dark blue blouses and light blue,
yellow-striped trousers. Sabers swinging in crazy
arcs, they went
pounding west, screaming as enthusiastically as the
Paddies. Their bugler blew the charge.
Meridian one hundred.
It was a goal every man had concentrated on for
months. With the goal reached, Michael had to confront
the reality of the next phase of his life: more
grueling, lonely work of the same kind. He didn't
like the prospect very much.
He did feel a sense of pride in
having helped push the line this far. As of today, the
Union Pacific's charter was official. The
eastern skeptics would be silenced, and perhaps the line
would begin to attract the investors it needed. Within ten
days to two weeks, Dr, Durant's much
publicized Great Pacific Railway
Excursion train would be chugging out of Omaha bearing
its select group of government dignitaries,
military officers, and potential stockholders.
Jack Casement was undoubtedly already sending a
caret telegraph message to Durant, informing him
of the day's accomplishment.
Meridian one hundred. He was proud of having
been part of the effort.
Yet something was lacking. He felt disconnected from
the revelry, and unenthusiastic about the work ahead.
The unease wasn't new. It had been with him ever
since the trip to Kearney. He'd grown moody and
uncommunicative. Sean Murphy had commented on
it several times.
A man came charging from the office car, repeating his
news as he ran:
"No more work! General Jack says we can take the
rest of the day an' have a good time!"
More cheering. Michael started for his quarters,
his face composed but not his spirit.
Men waved and screamed with renewed fervor when
Casement appeared on the steps of the office car, a
jubilant smile on his face. The rifle fire
grew almost continuous, the roar of the Spencers
proclaiming the victory and challenging anyone within
earshot-God
Himself, up in the hazy autumn sky-to accomplish
something more wondrous.
It was a triumph, and Michael knew it. Why,
then, did he feel so remote from it?
Because he constantly remembered the price paid in
blood to achieve it? Remembered the dead men,
including the four butchered hunters who had never been
identified?
Or was it because, of late, he found Julia Kent's
face frequently and disturbingly replaced in his
thoughts by that of Hannah Dorn?
ii
After supper he walked from the dining car to the row of
lamplit tents where rowdy men were already plumping down
their wages for overpriced whiskey, a chance to beat a
professional at three-card monte, or a quarter
hour with one of the fourteen or fifteen soiled doves
inhabiting the portable town.
He passed Brown's Paradise. A reveler
staggered out. Before the tent flap fell, Michael was
gratified to see no other patrons inside. He
had nothing personal against Brown. But he figured
the new men arriving every day or so should understand the risks
of visiting the establishment.
At the rear of the narrow lane between Levi's Bird
Cage Saloon and Tidwell's, his destination, he
spied a wagon parked in the semidarkness. A
tarp-covered wagon, with a black-haired man
rolled in a blanket on the hard ground beneath.
He recognized the white hunter's Sioux partner.
The Indian cradled a rifle close to his chest
while he dozed.
Inside Tidwell's, the only railhead
establishment selling general merchandise, a cheerful,
overweight man slapped his hands on the plank
counter.
"How do you do, sir. Bucyrus Tidwell's the
name." He rolled a gold-plated toothpick from
one side of his mouth to the other. "Help you find
something?"
Michael surveyed the hand-labeled jars,
bottles, and boxes on makeshift shelves.
Everything from calomel to cartridges. He
tugged his churchwarden out of his hip pocket.
"I need some tobacco."
Tidwell hefted an amber jar and carried it toward
the balances. "Got some choice Virginia. Six
bits." His smile widened. "Per ounce."
"Per ounce? You're joking."
Less cordially, Tidwell said, "I know my own
prices."
Michael was observing the sums chalked on the jars and
boxes. He'd never been in Tidwell's before.
Disgusted, he said:
"And you haven't set a fair one on anything. Your
profit looks to be three or four hundred
percent."
Tidwell shrugged. "Costs a lot to have freight
forwarded here."
"Not that much."
"There also ain't no comparable store between here and
Kearney." Tidwell's smile returned, an
arrogant half-moon. "You want to walk there for
tobacco, feel free."
"Damn gouger," Michael growled, pivoting
away. "I'll go without."
"Do that, you cheapskate Papist!" Michael broke
stride, fought his anger, then walked on.
He batted the tent flap aside with a savage
slap.
ill
Jeremiah Kent lay on a blanket-covered cot
located in a second, smaller tent directly
behind Brown's Paradise. He'd discarded his clothes
on the dirt floor, anxious
to satisfy himself with Nancy. Now that they'd finished
a romp, he was content to relax a bit, taking
pleasure in his own nakedness-he'd-bought a bath at
The Tonsorial-and in hers as she lay straddling
him. He barely felt her weight.
A lamp, trimmed low, rested on a crate in the
corner. Hanging canvas separated the crowded
nook from two similar ones in the tent. Beyond the
canvas to his left, one of the other whores was puffing
and moaning while her customer growled a continuous
stream of profanity. Peculiar way to enjoy a
woman, Jeremiah thought.
Nancy tightened her spread legs against his. Where
the roughness of her hair brushed him, he felt himself
stir. Languorously, he fondled the globular
breasts bobbling above her chest. His thumbs worked
slowly on the brown tips. She had her palms
braced on the cot so he could touch her that
way.
"Honestly didn't think you'd come back, Joe-was
"I like my full name better, hon. Joseph."
"All right, Mister Joseph," she laughed, moving
one hand to stroke his cooling forehead and the white-streaked
hair above.
"First time I called on you in August, I told
you I'd be back."
"Is it me you like, or just any of gal?" He
lifted his head to buss her lips. "Y." A shudder
rippled down her back. She squeezed him harder
with her thighs. Then she rested her head on his
shoulder.
"I'm glad that friend of yours didn't come in with you.
Butt won't let us take none of his kind. Nor
niggers, neither."
"Kola knows that. He goes to see Miss Gold
Tooth, down the line."
"Us girls up here won't even speak to that disgusting
old whore. She'll take anybody-was Suddenly
she kissed his throat. "Oh, Joseph, you're so
damn nice!"
He chuckled. "You don't have to deliver the speech
your boss taught you."
"He didn't tell me to say it," she
breathed. "It's good with you. With all the
others-"specially those blasted Irishmen-it's just
work." ?"was
"I'm flattered. But I'd say 'all the others"
is overstating it. This place appears to be crying for
trade."
"It is. Butt's mighty upset."
"Since there's no line waiting, he won't care
if we have another go-was
"Yes, he will! He's mighty strict about the
clock. You only paid for one time. Fifteen
minutes. We used that already."
The anxious words faded into a murmur of pleasure
as he reached behind her and started to rub her bare
buttocks.
"Joseph, Joseph-you're a sweet boy. But
we don't dare. Butt would have my hide."
"I've got your hide, Nancy. Gonna keep
it a while, too."
There was a more pronounced stir in his groin. Quickly
she shifted her pubis, lowered herself, and moaned as
she felt the rigidity.
"God, you just melt me," she whispered, kissing his
ear, his eyelid, his cheek while his thumbs pressed
harder against her breasts. "You got a mean
look sometimes, but you're sweet and easy on a
girl-must be the Southron in you. were you in the war?"
"Yes."
"D'you ever meet up with that old Reb, Davis?"
"In a manner of speaking. You might say Mr.
Jefferson Davis was responsible for teaching me some
of life's most valuable skills."
"What'n the fire's that mean?"
"Never mind," he laughed, pulling her head down.
She wriggled. "Sweet, we got to think of the time.
If you don't pay-was
"Be quiet," he said, affably but firmly, and
kissed her.
She gave up without protesting and kissed him back,
her mouth open, and her tongue darting. Now she was
moving her hips, raising them and lowering them faster
each time. A faint sound-not next door, outside-
distracted him. He opened his eyes.
Over her shoulder he saw a distorted shadow cast
on the canvas by an outdoor lantern. "Hey in
there, Kingston."
"Shut up!" Roused now, he clutched Nancy's
perspiring back.
"Your time's up."
"Oh, it's that damn pea-headed Toby-was
Nancy panted. Jeremiah thrust. "Oh. Oh."
The shadow stirred. "You don't put your pants
on, Kingston, I'm comin' in."
Jeremiah stopped the movement of his body, raging
because he'd just slipped comfortably into the girl. The
silhouetted arm of the proprietor's assistant
moved toward the opening in the canvas. Jeremiah
dropped his right hand beside the cot. Seized the
Ballard that laid atop his clothes.
"Boy, if you set foot in here, 111 blow you
all the way to the river."
The silhouetted arm dropped. "But you got to pay
again." "After."
"No, before. It's Mr. Brown's rules."
"Hell with his rules. I'll settle up later-was
Jeremiah's voice acquired a harder edge. "You
better skedaddle because I see your shadow just
perfect against the lantern. Leave us alone or
I'll put one through you with this buffalo gun. Not even
your own mother'!! recognize you."
Quickly, the shadow shrank and disappeared. In the
next cubicle, clothing rustled and the whore said in a
monotone, "Oh, that was sure sweet, thanks a
lot."
Jeremiah relaxed, shifted his right hand
back to Nancy's hips and returned to more
pleasurable pursuits.
IV
Adolphus Brown was in a vile temper. He
leaned his elbows on the board resting on two
barrels and surveyed his clientele. One miserable
Paddy, passed out on the floor.
For the first time this evening, two of the girls were occupied
in the annex, but the third was still alone. He'd already
taken a turn up and down the street. He knew his
competitors had more customers than they could handle.
Brown pulled a tarnished pocket watch from his
waistcoat, snapped it open, and checked the time.
Toby came rushing in.
"Butt-was
"Those two finished with Alice and Nancy?"
"Yes, sir-that is, Alice got done on the
dot. But that buffla hunter told me to leave.
He'n Nancy, they're comgoin' at it again."
Brown's eyes clouded. "I assume he paid you-was
"No, Butt. He--he said he'd shoot me if
I went in to collect."
Brown slapped his palm on a worn deck lying
on the board. "I'll have that bitch for breakfast!"
Toby fingered his beard. "Ain't her
fault. That Kingston's an ornery sort."
Brown's glance was scathing. "You mean he has enough
sand to scare you off? I thought better of you, my
boy."
Humiliated, Toby stood speechless. Brown
started to say something else, but then Liam O'Dey
slipped inside
the tent. With a jerky swipe of his hand across his mouth,
he hurried to the counter.
"This one on the house, Mr. Brown?"
"Why in shit should it be?"
"Well, sir, because-was
Nervously, O'Dey glanced at the entrance.
"comt time before, you asked me to keep my ears cocked.
I'm still doin' it."
"You said it'd be a pleasure, seeing as how Boyle
tossed you off his gang."
"That's right. Not ten minutes ago, I overheard that
bastard speakin' with four of the greenhorns who arrived
yesterday. He was next door to Tidwell's,
outside, and I was inside-he didn't see me
slip in behind him. He wasn't bothering to keep his
voice down, either. He told the greenhorns he
couldn't advise them about any of the places except
this one, where-was
O'Dey touched the deck.
"comwhere he said the railroad bibles are not straight."
Brown cursed, grabbed the deck, and flung it.
Cards fluttered down. Toby was wide-eyed.
Gaining control, Brown jerked his hat off, mopped
his scarred pate, and settled the hat back on his
head. "Toby, you'd better go see that loudmouth
again. Guess your first call made no impression.
This time you must talk louder-unless, of course, the
customer we were discussing watered your guts too
badly."
"No, Butt! I just didn't want to go into the dark
against a man lugging a hunting rifle-was
"I'll handle him," Brown nodded, grabbing a
bottle of Overholtz cut with Platte River
water. He shoved the bottle into O'Dey's white
hand.
"Two swallows."
O'Dey drank greedily.
"Now get out."
When he was gone, Brown motioned Toby to his
side. There was a pathetic eagerness in the young man's
eyes.
"We can't fool with the mick any longer, Toby.
Waited too damn long already."
He frankly feared reprisals from Casement if
one of the workers was seriously Injured. But as things
stood at the moment, his choices were to take a risk
or pack up and leave.
"Watch the Irishman till he's alone," he
cautioned. "Be sure no one sees you."
"It'll be easy. "Butt," Toby said, bobbing his
head. "First time I braced him, he wouldn't raise
a hand. He's yella."
"Well, you talk to him in your most persuasive
way."
"Loud, Butt?"
With a steady gaze, Brown said, "As loud as you know
how."
"Yes, sir!"
Toby scuttled from the tent. Brown jerked out his
watch again, noted the hour and minute, and thrust it
back in his pocket. He stalked to the entrance,
muttering and kicking strewn cards. By God, he was
through letting pious micks ruin his trade, and randy
itinerants take advantage of him!
Before stepping into the street, he paused to consider his
strategy. He pulled out the four-barrel derringer,
removed the shells and returned the pepperbox and the
shells to separate pockets. He left
the tent smiling.
In the dark behind the annex tent, Toby frantically
rummaged among empty crates in one of the
unhitched phaetons. He was ashamed of the way
he'd disappointed Butt. Ashamed and anxious
to make amends.
He hadn't told Butt the real reason he'd
balked at
entering the annex, though Butt had guessed it.
Toby had seen the young, soft-spoken hunter once
in August, then again this evening. Both experiences had
left him inexplicably frightened.
He didn't frighten easy, either. But there was something
vicious about Kingston's eyes. They were worse than
his employer's eyes, even when Butt was boiling
mad.
He found what he sought. A handle broken from a
spike maul. Thick enough and stout enough to beat a man
to death in three blows.
With the maul handle clutched to his side, he
slipped deeper into the darkness as Butt Brown
stormed out of the main tent and headed for the entrance to the
annex. Nancy's wordless voice came through the
canvas, uttering cry after strident cry.
Kingston
"MR. KINGSTON?"
The voice pushed at the edge of his mind, barely
audible because of Nancy's outcries and the roar of his
own breath. Her nails dug, then scraped his
back. Bodies shuddering, they reached the end together.
"Mr. Kingston, this is Brown."
"Oh, God," Nancy panted, limp on top of
him all at once. Jeremiah whispered for her to be
quiet, then shifted his head away from hers.
Clearly delineated on the front canvas, he
saw the motionless silhouette of the stocky man in the
melon-shaped hat.
"I hear you," he said as his breathing became more
regular. He slid his hand down to the Ballard.
"Believe there's been a slight misunderstanding-was
Jeremiah blinked. Brown sounded friendly.
"Might we discuss it a moment?"
"Go ahead."
"No, I mean out here."
Jeremiah ran his tongue to the corner of his dry
mouth. Despite Brown's puzzling cordiality,
something smelled of danger. Far in the distance,
drunken men sang a sad Irish ballad. A
revolver banged. A woman laughed, shrill as a
crow's caw.
"Toby should have known better than to interrupt,"
Brown resumed. "The lad's not too heavy
upstairs. You're welcome to Nancy's company for
as long as you
want to enjoy it, provided you pay in advance.
Trade's light this evening-I'll even set you a
special all-night price." A pause. "Mr.
Kingston?" "Still listening."
"Oh, good. Gentlemen can always reach an
accommodation. If you'll step out, it'll only
take a moment. I'm not armed."
Nancy's mouth was tight against Jeremiah's ear:
"Joseph, I think he's fooling you. He always
carries a hide-out gun. And he doesn't do
favors-was
"Kingston?" the voice prodded. The shadow jerked
toward the adjoining cubicle. "Alice, stay there!"
The woman next door complied without a murmur.
Jeremiah heard her return to her customer and
quietly urge him to remain where he was.
"Pardon me for doubting you, Mr. Brown,"
Jeremiah called, "but during the celebration this
afternoon, I distinctly recall you shot off a pocket
gun. I wouldn't care to hold a conversation with that gun
somewhere about."
A chuckle. "You're quick, Mr. Kingston. I do
have the gun. It's empty. Check it."
The shadow bent. The canvas stirred. An object
slid in the dirt beneath.
"There. Proof of my good faith."
"I tell you something's funny," Nancy breathed.
"Isn't like Butt to surrender his weapon."
There was a smile in Jeremiah's voice:
"Maybe he is anxious to have me stay the night.
As he said, business isn't all that grand."
Naked, he stole to the front dispartition. He
located the pepperbox and examined it against the glow from
the outside lantern.
"Empty, all right," he called.
"Then if you're satisfied, come out. As soon as
we agree on the price, I'll leave you alone."
Jeremiah debated. What if Brown had a
second gun? A hidden knife? Nancy
suspected it
Still, she might be inordinately cowed by the man. And
he would enjoy a whole night at a bargain rate.
"Mr. Brown?"
"Here, sir."
"Be right with you soon as I put my pants on."
"Excellent!"
He struggled into his trousers, shushed Nancy's
next warning, then patted her hair.
"Gonna be all right, hon. We'll have a fancy
time right till the cock crows."
He left the Ballard beside his hat and returned to the
front. "Stand back two or three paces, if you
please, Mr. Brown."
The shadow shrank. Jeremiah raised the flap.
Brown stood at the far edge of a pool of
butter-colored light between the main and secondary
tents. Quickly Jeremiah eyed the other man.
Smiled.
"You don't mind if I'm cautious? Show me the
linings of your coat. Spread "em wide."
Brown looked annoyed, but did as Jeremiah
asked. No bulges or unexplained slits were
visible. He gave a satisfied nod and left the
tent.
"Didn't mean to talk so sharp to your boy-was He
dug in the pocket holding the bills from the sale of the
latest kill. "How much will that be for all night?"
Brown had his hat in his right hand and was mopping his
pate with the other. He dropped the hat, shot his arms
forward, and caught Jeremiah's ears. "Damn
cheating Reb!" he cried.
Brown jerked Jeremiah's head forward and
simultaneously lowered his own. The top t
greater-than from his skull hit Jeremiah's face like
a log ram.
Angry and dazed, Jeremiah backstepped. Brown
released him. The impact of Brown's blow
multiplied the images he saw. Blood began
to trickle from his nose.
He'd never come up against a man who fought in such
unorthodox fashion. He didn't know what
to expect.
He staggered to the side, hands hunting a support.
Brown sidled forward, lunged for his shoulder.
Jeremiah managed to elude the grasping hands. He
put his left foot behind him. His bare sole came
down hard on a sharp stone imbedded in the ground.
He teetered, off balance. Brown lowered his head and
charged.
He butted Jeremiah just above the belly. With a
grunt, Jeremiah reeled over and slammed on his
spine, conscious of Nancy outside the tent, her
soiled wrapper clutched to her breasts.
Butt Brown landed on top of him, both knees in
Jeremiah's midsection. Jeremiah's vision
cleared just enough to give him a sharp look at
the saloon keeper's face. At very least, the man
meant to maim him.
"Nancy, the rifle!" As he called to her, the
edge of Brown's hand chopped his throat. He
gagged.
A second, even less clearly defined figure
appeared behind the young prostitute, then scampered
away. Alice's customer.
Brown had Jeremiah's ears again. He lifted
Jeremiah's head and pounded it against the ground.
Then again, slam.
Jeremiah threw a punch. It grazed Brown's
jaw but did no damage. Brown's lips peeled
back. His nose shone with sweat. Blood smeared
Jeremiah's mouth and chin. He nearly faulted when
Brown rammed his head down a third time.
"Think you can come in here-was Brown bashed his forehead
with a heavy fist. com8high-assed and snotty and break
my rules? No, sir!"
A knee bore into Jeremiah's crotch, the
pressure excruciating. Brown had taken him
by surprise. The advantage had belonged to the
stocky gambler ever since. Brown's face was dark
as a beet, his eyes pitiless.
"Rifle-was Jeremiah croaked as Brown
chopped his throat again.
Nancy hesitated. Brown's knee jerked,
digging. Jeremiah almost screamed from the pain in his
groin.
Once more Brown resorted to ear pulling: He
tugged Jeremiah's head up and snapped his own head
forward. The scarred skull loomed, shooting straight
at Jeremiah's eyes.
He managed to wrench onto his side. Brown had
meant to knock him out with a butt to the forehead. He
absorbed the blow on his ear. His head rang.
He wedged his hand between his body and Brown's. Found
the man's belt buckle. Hoisted with all his
strength and succeeded in hurling Brown off.
When Jeremiah reached his feet, he wobbled.
Blood and mucus continued to drain from his nose. His
head and his testicles hurt unbearably. Where was
Brown?
He found him, indistinct in the lantern's glow.
The saloon keeper was disheveled but steady. He
lowered his head. Ran at Jeremiah.
Something hard jabbed Jeremiah's side. He saw
a flash of metal, caught hold and yanked the
Ballard away from Nancy. He dodged
clumsily, twisted, and booted Brown's
behind. The kick and the momentum of Brown's charge
hurled him to the ground. His jaw snapped hard against
the dirt. Jeremiah's first advantage.
He pressed it. Using the Ballard as a club,
he swung down from straight overhead. He broke
the stock on Brown's skull.
Brown yelled. Jeremiah hurt too much to stop
or be merciful. The Ballard barrel seemed
to fuse with his hands as he kicked Brown's ribs.
The stocky man retched; flopped onto his comback.
A hand brushed Jeremiah's forearm.
"Leave him be, Joseph! He's whipped."
Nancy's words made no impression. Both
pride and body had been injured too badly. He
knelt on Brown's waistcoat, the positions of a
few moments ago reversed.
Gripping the Ballard at muzzle and breech, he
shoved it down like a bar across Brown's throat. The
man's eyes popped. Fingers groped for
Jeremiah's face. He straightened his arms.
Pushing. Pushing -
Brown couldn't reach him.
He laughed at the sudden and pathetic fright in the
saloon keeper's eyes. It took only a few
moments more to cut off the man's air
supply. Brown's discolored tongue shot between his
clenching teeth. His body arched three times, each
spasm less violent than the one before. Then he
collapsed. Jeremiah didn't lift the rifle for
another thirty seconds.
When he staggered to his feet, he was still shaking with
rage directed mostly at-himself. The saloon
keeper's treachery and wild fighting style had
nearly cost him his life.
Alice lifted the tent flap, took one peek at
his red smeared face, and darted back inside. He
realized Nancy was weeping.
"Joseph?"
"What?"
"Is he-?"
"Yes."
"I gave you the gun just so you could scare him off!"
He barely heard. His rage subsided, replaced
by a forced calm. This unexpected turn changed the
situation completely. He had to flee-without delay.
"Hand me my clothes, Nancy. Appears I
won't be seeing you for a while."
Nancy stood with the wrapper fallen away from one
reddened nipple. His eyes fixed on her wet
face. For a moment weary despair swept
over him. She was actually sorry the crazy bastard
was dead! And terrified of him because he'd done the
deed.
"I said I want my clothes, goddamn it!"
Nancy rushed inside. His heartbeat was slowing.
He
stepped to the edge of the annex, glanced toward the main
street. Against the smoky glare of lamps and the bulk
of the train, men passed back and forth, making so much
racket the scuffling had gone unheard.
That gave him a margin of time. He'd wake
Kola, hitch the mules, and be rolling across the
prairie in fifteen minutes. Kola would have
to drive. He felt too
groggy.
Nancy brought his hat, boots, shirt, and long
underwear. He held out the Ballard.
She wouldn't touch it.
His fondness for her was swept away by disgust. were
all whores like this? Miserable with their pimps, and just as
miserable without them?
He laid the rifle on the ground. Used his shirt
sleeve to swab some of the mucus and blood from his mouth
and chin. Then he climbed into his drawers, donned
his shut, and pulled up his suspenders.
"Joseph, you didn't need to kill-was
He pointed the Ballard at her exposed breast.
"Don't go soft on me, hon. What do you think
he meant to do to me? Now listen. You stay in that tent
half an hour before you fetch anyone to look after the
body."
His dark eyes held pinpoint reflections of the
lantern. His lips thinned to little more than a slit.
"If anybody comes chasing me sooner than half
an hour, Nancy, I promise I'll see you
again. Someplace. I won't be coming for your
services, either."
"God." A shiver. "You aren't the kind of man I
thought you were."
"I can say the same about you. Brown was a no-good,
reckless-was
"He took care of me!"
"You expect me to stand still and let some dishonorable
son of a bitch jump me and put put the lights?
No, ma'am! Get inside!"
He jerked the Ballard at her. She reacted like a
startled rabbit, hurrying to the sanctuary of the tent.
"Half an hour-no sooner!" he called.
Unsteadily, he walked toward the rear of the annex.
For a moment he felt sick at his stomach.
Why did it always end the same way?
Because you enjoy doing a man to death. Don't deny it.
You started to enjoy it the moment you pulled the trigger
on Serena Rose.
All right, he had taken pleasure from watching
Brown's last moments. But the gratification had
been costly. It created a whole host of new
problems.
He'd have to change his name again. He probably should
have changed it before he reached the railhead. That
Texas boy he'd foolishly spared was no doubt
raising a halloo down south. Searchers might come
this far north. They'd discover Joseph Kingston had
come this far as well.
Fuzzy-headed and still in pain, he staggered on. He
passed three more gambling establishments and pulled
up short. In the leak of light from the street, he
spied Kola's empty blanket beneath the wagon.
And two men, one unfamiliar, squared off against
each other.
They saw him. It was too late to run.

A few minutes earlier, Michael had decided
to satisfy his curiosity about the stranger before
returning to the bunk car to turn in.
He cut between Tidwell's and the packed, noisy
Bird Cage. At the rear of the tents he stopped,
disappointed. The blanket beneath the wagon had been
abandoned. The Indian had evidently gone off
to search for his friend.
As he turned to retrace his steps, the corner of his
eye caught movement at the far edge of the saloon
tent. A shambling figure appeared around the
corner.
Michael's stomach spasmed. He recognized
Butt Brown's bearded helper. The young man
carried some kind of club.
Toby slouched through the shadow cast by the Bird
Cage. "Hullo there, mick."
Michael drew a deep breath. Had Brown's
helper been following him while he strolled? There
could be no other explanation for the young man's abrupt
appearance.
"Butt sent me to see you."
"A few weeks ago, you and I said all that was
necessary."
"Thought we did," Toby agreed. "But we hear
you're still spoutin" off about Butt."
"The way I answer questions about your boss is my
affair." Michael tried to act relaxed
as he swung to the left, in the direction of the main
street. "Good night-was
He heard the hiss of air as the maul handle came
down. He side-stepped, but not soon enough. The
handle slammed his right shoulder.
He lurched; dropped to one knee. Toby jumped
in front of him, grinning.
"Plan to give you a few more like that. Then maybe
you'll plug your mouth. Don't you make it too
easy on me, though. Robs it of all the sport."
Quietly, Michael said, "I'm not going to fight
you."
"Yes, you are."
"No."
"Damn coward, that's what you are! I knowed it the first
time we met up."
Toby Harkness had shifted to a position directly
between the mercantile and gambling tents. Michael's
path was blocked.
He climbed to his feet and forced his hands open;
they'd fisted almost without his being aware of it.
"Stand out of the way."
Toby hawked and blew spit on his trousers.
"All right," Michael said, his anger bubbling so
fiercely he could barely contain it. He
pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees. "I'll
take another route."
He wrenched his head as the maul handle whistled in from
behind. Despite his quick move, the wood clipped him
alongside the ear. His hand shot up to cover the side
of his head. Toby giggled.
Anger shone in Michael's eyes. "Back off!
I'm not going to fight."
"I told Butt you was yella." Toby poked
Michael's cheek with the smoothed end of the handle.
"Yella from tip to toe."
Michael jerked his head out of the way, narrowly
avoiding the next thrust. He refused to shout for
help. But neither would he answer Brown's thug in
kind.
Just stay calm. You knew one day it would come to something
like this.
"Yella dog, yella dog!" Toby chanted. The
handle gigged Michael beneath the eye.
Toby gave the wood a twist, then stabbed it
into his midsection. "Ain't you gonna howl for me,
Mr. Yella Dog?"
"You witless bastard!"
"Hey, the dog can bark! Bark some more-was He took
a shuffling step. "Come on, let's hear a
yelp."
Toby snacked the handle lightly against the ear he'd
already hit.
"I said yelp!"
The handle struck Michael's temple.
"Yelp!"
He brought the handle down on Michael's right
shoulder.
A pitiless inner voice spoke the truth of it.
There is no way out of this unless you go after him.
He wanted to do it. The desire was like a dizzying
drunkenness.
Growing incoherent, Toby rammed the handle
into Michael's belly. "You yella mick fucker!
Act like a man!" When Toby spit this time, disthe
moist gob landed beside Michael's nose.
He cursed and surprised Toby by fastening both
hands on the maul handle.
Don't!
He was too enraged to heed the cautioning voice, or
care about the vow. He tore the handle out of Toby's
fingers. The younger man was startled; slow to react.
Michael raised the handle over his head, his clenched
hand white.
Eyes on the length of wood, Toby
began to retreat.
DON'T!
With a slashing outward motion, Michael flung the
handle. It turned end over end, clattering against the
wagon. He turned his back on Toby-perhaps the
hardest thing he'd ever done-and started to walk.
He felt neither victorious nor proud of himself,
only ashamed.
He heard Toby run for him, heavy boots
scuffing the ground. He turned. Toby dug in his
heels a couple of feet away. A smile
crept back on his oafish face.
Slowly Toby flexed his fingers.
"What the hell's going on?"
The white man with the streaked hair lurched out of the
dark, a rifle in one hand, hat and boots in the
other. The white man's sleeve was marked with
blood. So was his face.
Toby recognized the stranger, who paused behind
Levi's Bird Cage.
"Where's Kola? Where's the Indian?"
"I don't know-was Michael began.
"You-was Toby sounded less confident; started edging
toward the fallen length of wood. "comy fold your
hand, mister. My confab with this here mick is
private."
The hunter glanced at the maul handle. "And one
sided, from the look of it. I'd suggest you light out
of here, boy. If the Irishman takes you, no one
will shed a tear. You've lost your number one
backer."
"What-what d'you mean?"
"You'll find out presently. Just break this up and
get going."
Toby seemed to see the blood on the hunter for the
first time. "Did you do somethin' to Butt?"
"Shut up and move!"
The hunter walked away from the hard-breathing young
man. He tossed his hat and boots onto the
wagon seat. Toby dashed for the maul handle. He
got hold of it just as Michael called:
"Look out for yourself, mister!" The hunter pivoted
at the waist.
Swung with Toby's full strength, the handle landed
athwart his temple and knocked him backward. He
floundered against the wagon wheel, stabbing the split
stock of his rifle into the dirt to prop himself up.
Toby kicked the stock. Reflected light from the
tent street shone in the hunter's eyes as he
crashed to his knees, hurt but refusing
to quit.
Toby reached for the hunter's hair. "What'd you do
to Butt?" With an almost regretful expression, the.
hunter fired the rifle from his hip.
The spurt of light blinded Michael a moment. The
reverberating roar silenced the clamor in the Bird
Cage. When he opened his eyes, he no longer
saw the slightest remorse on the hunter's face.
Bucyrus Tidwell popped into sight between the
tents.
"Who's out there?"
Toby uttered a series of whimpers. Dropped the
maul handle. Leaned his forehead against the wagon and
clawed the side with both hands. Then, with a lazy
slowness, he slid down until there was no more wood
to lean against.
He fell face first on the rumpled blanket.
Where his chest had rubbed the wagon, a wide swathe of
red glistened like paint.
Almost instantly, men were shouting and clamoring around
Michael. He barely saw the hunter collapse
on his side, not unconscious but laboring to breathe.
Blood had begun leaking from the man's nose. His
eyes closed.
"What the hell's the row?" Tidwell
boomed, just as the Sioux, rifle in hand, came
slipping into sight at the far side of the Bird
Cage. He saw his fallen friend, ran to him,
knelt, then glanced up with furious eyes.
"Who did this?"
Michael shoved through the growing crowd, ignoring shouted
questions. He pointed to Toby.
"He did part of it. The youngster was after me. Your friend
came along, the boy went for him, and your friend took
him out. I don't know who bloodied him."
As if there weren't pandemonium enough, a woman
began to scream. Down in the direction of Brown's
Paradise, Michael thought. The direction from which the
hunter had come.
The Sioux cradled the white man's head in his
lap.
"Joseph? Joseph, do you hear? I woke and could
not find you. I went searching-was
"That's all we need, more goddamn Injun trouble,"
someone complained.
"There won't be any," Michael said. "He's the
white man's partner. The white man helped me."
The keening scream was joined by a second one.
Michael walked over to the Sioux, who watched him
with suspicion.
"Your friend's hurt. He needs attention. You want
to pick him up or shall I?"
The Indian saw half a dozen drawn revolvers
in the
mob spilling from the lane between Tidwell's and the
saloon. Out in the street, a man yelled:
"Fetch General Jack!"
"We stay here-was the Sioux began.
"No," Michael said. "I think he'd better
rest on the train until this is cleared up."
The Indian stayed motionless. A revolver cocked,
loudly.
"You'll be safer somewhere else!" Michael insisted.
"Some at this railhead don't like any Indians but
dead ones. Did you say your partner's name is
Joseph?"
"Yes, Joseph Kingston. He is my kola.
My sworn friend."
The name meant nothing. Undoubtedly he'd been
wrong about having seen the white man before.
"Well, now he's mine too," Michael
replied. "You can trust me. Let me have your
rifle coms some drunken idiot doesn't take a
potshot at you. Come on, give it to me."
Doubtful, the Indian searched Michael's
strained face. Then he complied.
"Pick him up and bring him along to the train.
We'll put him in my bunk."
A Matter of Truth
STRANGERS MURMURED in a half-lit dark.
They spoke English, but the accents were not his own.
Some of the voices carried a Yankee harshness.
Others had a certain lilt he'd first heard at the
railhead. Irish talk.
Jeremiah came fully awake. His groin, his
nose, and his forehead throbbed. When he grew
conscious of his surroundings, fright dried his throat.
He was boxed in a bunk; prisoned below, above, and
on the right. Only when he floundered over on his
side facing the amber light did he see no
wall.
His eyes focused on the man who'd almost taken a
beating at the wagon. A slender Paddy with a weathered
face and brown eyes flecked the color of the lamps
in the-
Bunk car, that's where he was. The place was rank
with the odor of unclean bodies, abuzz with conversation.
About him, he presumed.
He was disresting at the top of a tier of three beds.
The Irishman with the graying hair and
mustache stood on the lowest one, trying to pull up
the blanket while Jeremiah pushed it away.
"Easy, lad," the Irishman said. His voice had
an echo. Or was that only in Jeremiah's head?
His upper lip felt tender when he explored it with
his tongue. Someone had washed his face. The sense of
confinement-of threat-intensified.
"Easy, now. You're safe. You've been looked
at. Jack Casement knows a bit of field
medicine. Nothing's wrong with you except you've got
a bashed nose and a bushel of bruises."
"Where's my rifle?"
"The Indian has it."
"Where is he?"
"Sitting down here." The Irishman motioned to the
lowest bunk. Jeremiah couldn't see Kola.
"No harm will come to him. By the way, my name is
Boyle. I've learned yours is Kingston. You
needn't speak if it hurts too much. But I
want to thank you for what you did."
The golden brown eyes picked up lamplight. A
sadness touched the stranger's face as he went on:
"The boy's being wrapped for burial. I hate
to see him dead, but under the circumstances I've no
call to quarrel. Do you want some broth?
One of the cooks is willing to-was
"I want out of here."
"Afraid that isn't possible as yet. Casement
plans to speak with you. Meantime, you should rest."
"I want out of here!" Jeremiah sat up too
quickly, knocking his head on the plank ceiling.
Despite his determination, his bones seemed to lose
their stiffness. He lay down again, breathing hard.
The light of the car lanterns shimmered, then began
to compress, squeezed between layers of darkness. The
Irishman touched him.
"Would a drink of whiskey help?"
The panic of enforced confinement still gripped him as he
lost consciousness.
comsorry sorry sorry sorry -- "What? What
did you say?" "I said-was
It was the Irishman again, barely perceived as
Jeremiah's sleep-clotted eyes came open.
The man was still standing on the lower bunk. Evidently
time had passed. Some lamps in the car had been
extinguished. His aches weren't quite so painful.
Outside, cannon fire rumbled. Then he
realized it was a distant prairie storm.
"I said, I'm sorry to wake you. Jack
Casement insists on seeing you right now. I
tried to persuade him to wait until morning. But
he's exercised about all the trouble tonight."
"No objection," Jeremiah said. He was
grateful. He didn't want to stay penned in this
smelly prison any longer than necessary. Out in the
stormy dark there were dead men crying his name. He
needed to be away before the living heard.
He clenched his teeth. Started to swing his legs toward
the edge of the bunk. The pain, wrenched his face.
"Take my hand," Boyle offered.
"No. Stand back."
He hadn't realized how difficult it would be.
He struggled until he was on his belly with his
legs hanging over the aisle. When the Irishman
steadied his elbow, he jerked his arm away
resentfully.
He muttered an apology. He wasn't himself because
of the confinement, the sense of being entrapped
by unfamiliar faces, dim ovals in the equally
dim wash of yellow light. Wriggling into position
to drop to the floor, he glimpsed Kola with the
Ballard. A reassuring sight.
He saw a rectangle of paper tacked to the wall
near the head of the bunk. Some drawing of a. nigra
carrying
His eyes opened wide. A guttural sound rose
in h8throat. He was unable to control the tears of
astonishment.
"Joseph?" That was Kola.
"Kingston, what's the trouble?" The Irishman.
"Nothing!" he said, louder than he intended.
"Brown almost kicked my balls off, you know.
Hurts a bit."
He blinked, clearing his eyes. But it wasn't so
easy to rid himself of the surprise and anguish that had
torn him like a bullet when he saw two words below
the drawing's caption.
M. Kent.

Who was the Irishman? Where had he gotten the
picture that was unmistakably Matt's? He
wanted to ask, but wouldn't until he was in better
control of himself.
Fortunately there were distractions. The effort to walk;
Kola supporting him; the Irishman hovering.
They reached the platform between cars. Wind battered his
face. Northwestward, a white light flared and
spread on the horizon, soon followed by a
prolonged roll of thunder. A cloud of dirt carrying
bits of grass and other debris went
sailing by. Beyond it he glimpsed men laboring
to keep one of the tents from falling.
"What time is it?" he asked Boyle.
"Something after three in the morning."
"Bad blow coming."
"Fast," Boyle replied, holding the next
door. "This way."
Jeremiah had seen but never spoken to Jack
Casement. He was no man for trifling, that much
Jeremiah knew the moment he was ushered into the
office. Casement was fully dressed, fully
awake, and unfriendly.
"Boyle here is pleading you're too banged up
to be on your feet, Kingston--that is your name?"
Jeremiah confined his answer to a nod.
"I overruled him. I want tonight's business
settled. I have already talked with an Alice
Peaslee--do you know a woman called Alice
Peaslee?"
"One of Brown's whores."
"Yes. Nancy Dell, the female who caused
one of the incidents, is apparently too distraught
to speak to anyone."
Casement tipped back and forth in his chair. It
squeaked. Even when he sat all the way
forward, his legs didn't touch the floor. His glance
was nearly as fiery as his beard.
"Alice Peaslee satisfied me that her
employer, Adolhus Brown, attacked first."
Relieved, Jeremiah said, "That's correct."
"Two men are dead, however. Brown and his boy of
all work."
"Toby came at me with the handle of a sledge.
He-was Jeremiah located Michael leaning in a
shadowy corner. Thunder pealed. "comhe was all over this
gentleman. When I suggested he stop, he turned
on me."
"You found it necessary to shoot him?"
"At that moment-was Jeremiah shrugged. "Yes."
"Well, you were apparently provoked on both
occasions, and Boyle supports the second part of
your story. The prostitute confirmed the other part.
So I have no cause to detain you. Butt Brown was
one of the worst influences in this camp, if there can be
any degree of difference between men of his stripe. But
I don't want your kind at the railhead either,
Mr. Kingston. I don't want murderers here."
"I defended myself!"
"In the first case, apparently you did. The boy
is another matter. I want you to take
your wagon and your Indian friend and get out. Immediately,
and for good."
"Sir," Boyle protested, "you should at least let
him rest a bit more-was
"Immediately," Casement repeated, and swung his
squeaking chair to face the desk. He reached for a
pile of papers and within seconds was immersed in them.
There was no appeal.
iv
Michael helped Kingston and the Sioux hitch the
mules. The storm was coming rapidly. Swollen,
clouds were visible overhead whenever the lightning
flashed.
As soon as the wagon was ready, Kingston ordered the
Indian to drive to the end of the track and wait. A
few moments later, still moving with a lack of steadiness,
he led his buffalo pony in the same direction.
"Walk with me a moment, Mr. Boyle."
Michael was puzzled by the hoarseness of Kingston's
voice. He didn't know what to make of the hunter.
The man was neither illiterate nor constantly
rough-spoken. But there was a remote, unfeeling air
about him that made Michael thankful Kingston
wasn't his adversary. The man seemed able to keep
his head while bearing a great deal of pain.
They struggled against the wind, passing behind the tent
town. Half a dozen of the canvas structures had
been struck in anticipation of the thunderstorm. The rest
flapped and tilted toward the east, their poles
creaking, their guy ropes whining. Only the Bird
Cage showed a lamp.
"Devil of a shame you're turned out so soon,
Kingston. Casement has not quite forgotten he's no
longer commanding or disciplining Union soldiers."
Kingston laughed in a curt way. "Was he an
officer? I suspected."
The buffalo pony shied as they passed the last tent
and took the wind's full force. Kingston held his
plainsman's hat on his head as they labored toward
the grade. Another lightning burst revealed the
buffalo guns bobbing in the handmade saddle
scabbard.
"I have a question for you," Kingston said.
"What is it?"
Kingston opened his mouth, then hesitated. The
question Michael heard was not the one Kingston meant
to ask, he thought.
"Why did you permit that boy to maul you?"
"I don't know whether I can explain. I was in the
war-was
"Yank side, of course."
Michael nodded. "From your speech, I'd guess you
were on the other one."
"Yes, I was. Go on."
"I grew sick of the fighting. I journeyed out here
to get away from it and didn't. I had to kill again.
I won't bore you with the story, but I promised
myself I'd never fight again."
"Think you can stick by such a decision?"
"I can try."
Kingston grunted, then dabbed his sleeve against a
thread of blood below his purpled nose. When he
spoke again, it was with a wry sadness.
"I admire your determination. I didn't find the
war a pleasant or uplifting experience either. But
when I came out of it, whole in body if not
exactly whole of mind, I made a different
choice. I decided I'd never let any human
being best me in a fight for my life. Nor would I
suffer the behavior of dishonorable men. Your position
has its merits, though. I'd urge you to stick
by it-was
What the devil was this? Michael wondered. Something
close to sadness had crept into Kingston's voice.
Or was he merely imagining that, deceived by the
noise of the raging wind?
No, it wasn't imagination. He saw that when the
lightning illuminated the prairie again. The rails
shone like streaks of iridescent fire, leading beyond the
meridian marker to the wagon, the restive mules, the
motionless Indian. Kingston's eyes were wet.
"combecause if you do, you stand a chance of being a happy
man. Don't let any bastard chivvy you
into changing your mind."
"Toby nearly did. He kept calling me a
coward."
"Not surprised. But I've had a taste of each
kind of life. In many ways, yours demands more
courage-
Kingston's voice broke. He pivoted away.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut against the blowing
grit. He couldn't fathom why this young man who
killed so easily seemed eager to counsel him.
He was taken by surprise when Kingston seized his
arm.
"Where did you get the picture?"
"What?"
"The drawing in your bunk. Where did you get it?"
"Why, from the artist's father."
"Do you know him?"
Michael was alarmed by the intensity of the question.
Kingston's fingers dug into his sleeve. Puzzled
and annoyed, Michael pulled away:
"See here. I hardly consider this an occasion for
discussing -"
"Goddamn it, answer me! Do you know the artist's
father?"
"Yes, I know him."
Lightning lit heaven. Thunder shook the earth.
"He's my father too," Kingston said.
"Jesus Christ, that's it," Michael breathed.
No wonder he'd missed the obvious. He'd been
looking in the wrong direction.
"What are you talking about?" Kingston said.
"Your face. It's like Jephtha's."
Kingston-or Jeremiah Kent, as he announced
himself to be-repeatedly refused to answer Michael's
questions about his past. He wouldn't explain how he'd
gotten from Georgia to the railhead, or why he was
traveling with a Sioux and calling himself by another name.
Hoping to break through the stubborn barrier of
refusals, Michael told him Jephtha Kent
believed his youngest son to be dead.
"In a sense that's true, Mr. Boyle. Now
what do you know about my brothers?"
Still shaken, Michael described Matthew's
survival of the blockade and his marriage, then
Gideon's unsuccessful struggle to find a place
for himself in New York City, where Jephtha was
preaching.
"So both of them came out alive. I'm glad.
Is my mother well?"
"She-she died this past summer."
A glare of lightning showed Michael the other man's
bent head. Jeremiah made no sound.
"King-Jeremiah-blast! I can't get used
to calling you Jeremiah-was
"Don't. It isn't my name any longer, just as
Kingston won't be after tonight."
"You've got to tell me where you've been! How you
got here-was
"No, Boyle. I refuse. But what about you? I
don't recall hearing anyone speak of you. What's
your connection with my father?"
Hoping cooperation would engender more of the same,
Michael explained. Jeremiah nodded from time to time,
and said when Michael finished:
"Well, if my mother ever mentioned you before I left
Lexington, I've forgotten. I'm happy to hear
my father's alive."
"He'll be happy to learn you are, too."
"You're not going to tell him."
"Of course I am! As soon as pos-was
Jeremiah interrupted with a shake of his head. "You
won't tell him a thing unless you want to hurt
him."
"Good God, it wouldn't be fan: to keep this news
from-was
Michael stopped. There was a measure of truth in
what the younger man said. Which truth had priority?
He thought of one way he might answer that:
"There's a circumstance which could change your mind. You
surely recall the California money-was
"Amanda Kent's money? Yes."
"When Jephtha concluded you'd been killed, he
decided to will me your share. He adopted me
unofficially into the family-in my bunk I have his
letter explaining why."
"What you've just said proves he did the right thing.
You could have kept the information to yourself. You're a proper
Kent, all right."
"Well, I'd never surrender that part. But the
inheritance is yours. It doesn't belong to me any
longer."
"It certainly does. Consider it your
reward for never informing, my father, my
brothers-anyone-that we've met."
"You can't ask-was
"Not ask. Demand."
"You expect me to keep it from Jephtha forever?"
"Unless you don't give a damn about him, yes."
Michael's composure was shattered. Too many
shocks had piled one onto another. His eyes
started to fill with angry tears:
"I can't do it!"
"You can and will. I saved you. For that, and for the money-you
owe me. Use the money to give yourself a decent
life. Buy a home when you're done working out here.
Marry a good woman. Raise a family-was
Mockingly. "You can find use for the money, can't you?"
"Why-was Suddenly Michael saw a possibility,
and felt guilt. "comof course. But it would be wrong
to-was
"The decision isn't yours."
Up where Kola waited with the wagon, one of the mules
brayed. Jeremiah gripped Michael's arm again,
gently this time.
"To convince you my father mustn't know, I'll say
this much. I was in Texas for a while. I got into a
difficulty. Unfortunately, it's
become hard for other men to bring me down. And hard for
me to let them."
Michael asked himself whether he'd lost his senses.
There was a crusty, almost arrogant pride in
Jeremiah's voice.
"By the time I left Fort Worth, they had a bounty
on my head. By now I expect there's a second
one."
"Why?"
"Not important. But I think you'll read about
Joseph Kingston in some paper, and fairly soon.
When you do, Kingston will be long gone. I'll have
another name. Now do you understand why I "don't want
my father or my brothers to know how I'm living?"
He reached for the double scabbard. Touched one of the
buffalo rules. "I plan to keep living the same
way for a good many years."
Michael shuddered. Jeremiah's eyes softened again.
"So you're welcome to the inheritance. I could never
put it to use."
"You could travel. Europe, the Orient-you could
live well."
"Hell, I haven't even begun to see this country.
Besides, I've no head for managing money. The war
left me with somewhat limited talents."
"The money could funnel through me. Jephtha need
never find out."
Jeremiah pondered. Cocked his head, smiling a
little. "Tempting-was The smile disappeared. "But there
might be a slip."
"It's unfair to ask me to keep silent. It's
damned unfair, and it's wrong!"
"Perhaps. But you'll do it. Your opinion doesn't
matter. My father and brothers are the only ones who
count in this."
Michael uttered a sigh of frustration. Swiped his
fore
head with his palm as if his head hurt. "Oh, I
suppose -" His voice strengthened. "I suppose
sparing them is the honorable thing, but-was
"Honorable?" Jeremiah broke in. "I hadn't
thought of it that way." He touched his hat. "I'm
grateful you put it in such a light."
Michael felt a splash of rain on his cheeks.
Lightning showed him great tumbling clouds directly
above; the storm's leading edge, sweeping over the
railhead.
Jeremiah lifted his foot to his stirrup. He
grunted as he hauled himself into the saddle. The rain
intensified, blurring, then hiding the wagon
waiting out beyond the unfinished track.
"Do I have your promise you'll keep silent,
Mr. Boyle?"
Drenched and confused, Michael hesitated.
Suddenly Jeremiah's pony reared. He lashed it
with the rein until all four hoofs were on the ground.
He jerked one of the buffalo guns from the scabbard.
He pointed the rifle at Michael's head.
"This piece may misfire because of the downpour-was He
was shouting to be heard. "comb if that's the case,
I'll deal with you another way. Since you've
abandoned fighting, I should have no trouble. I want
your promise or I'll see you dead right here."
The rain roared in the silence.
"Boyle?"
Michael lifted his head. "All right. For his
sake."
The thin-lipped face jerked in what might have been a
smile. Jeremiah slid the rifle back to its
place.
"Now say it again. I want to hear the promise
given freely."
Not knowing whether he was right or wrong, Michael said,
"I promise."
"I'm obliged. I urge you to get out of
this damn place while you're still in one piece.
Use the money. Amount
to something. Find a home and stay there. I'll tell
you something about being able to go home. It seldom seems
important until you can't do it."
He turned the pony's head. "Goodbye, Mr.
Boyle."
"Jeremiah!"
The younger man fought to control the fretful animal.
"Would you have shot me if I hadn't given my word?"
"Yes."
He kicked the pony and galloped west beside the right of
way, quickly lost in the rainstorm.
A Matter of Faith
BY THE TIME MICHAEL reached the sleeping car,
he was soaked and exhausted. But Jeremiah's words
denied him rest.
Get out of this damn place while you're still in one
piece.
Amount to something.
Find a home and stay there.
The line was past the meridian. He'd helped
accomplish that much. But the cost was high.
Killing Worthing.
Watching Dorn and two Cheyenne braves
perish when it might have been prevented.
Finding the remains of the massacred hunters.
Being instrumental in Toby's death.
Important as the railroad was to the country, he
could never again separate it from violence and suffering.
Jeremiah's face kept intruding as he changed
to dry clothes. He barely heard O'Dey's whined
complaints about his noise.
He grieved for Jeremiah, by turns callous and
considerate.
He grieved for Jephtha too. And Matt, and
Gideon. Still, a painful lie about an unknown
grave would be less hurtful to them than the truth-
All at once he rebelled against the burden he'd
accepted when he gave his word. But the rebellion
lasted
only a short time. Amanda Kent had never insisted
a man or woman should feel no sorrow or anger.
She had insisted sorrow and anger must never keep a
man or woman from the right course. He'd keep his
promise.
He took down the drawing of the milk vendor and
studied it by the feeble light of the one lamp still lit at
the end of the car. Instead of the figures on the paper,
he saw Jeremiah's eyes. An old
man's eyes, aged by distrust and deceits and acts
of rage. He and Jeremiah were different, yet in
one way they were alike. In the flawed mirror of
Jephtha's youngest son he at last confronted an
image of what he was-and might become.
He hoped to God he possessed the will to keep his
vow. He prayed he'd never reach the point where he
would be capable of emulating Jeremiah's curious
pride in killing another human being. He didn't
think so.
Yet between himself and the hunter there remained a fearful
bond. They were both rootless. Both running.
Jeremiah had little choice. He did. And he'd
come to understand the folly of flight. It was time to seek
a hope of peace, however tenuous, some other way.
He laid the drawing up at the head of his bunk and
walked forward through the dark train. The only sound was
the pelt of rain.
Fortunately Jack Casement was still awake.
Before the first supply train arrived, he went out to the
end of the track. It had occurred to him the Kents were
collectors of mementos of their common past. He
had become a Kent. He wanted a souvenir of his
work on the transcontinental line.
The storm had obliterated footprints and
wagon tracks. He crouched in the driving rain and
scooped a handful of mud and crushed stone from between two
ties. He used his soggy bandana to wrap it, tying
a secure knot.
When the bandana"s contents dried out, he'd hunt
up a box for keeping them. Some day, years from now,
he might be able to open the box and discover time had
erased recollections of decidedly unromantic
sweat, tortured muscle, and dead men, leaving
only a single fine memory of having lent his hand
to building the greatest marvel of the age.
in
The boy's alarmed voice brought Michael up
short at the rear corner of the unpainted building.
The front of the building had shown no light-not
surprising since the hour was close to midnight.
With the exception of two pine board saloons down
near the right of way, Grand Island's business
establishments and small homes were dark.
The empty supply train whistled twice as it
chugged onto a siding. The whistle had a forlorn
sound in the drizzle. The rain had lasted nearly
sixteen hours.
On the dark, roofed back porch, Michael thought
he saw the unmistakable outline of a
Hawken. Aimed his way.
"Only me, Klaus."
The boy scooted to the edge of the porch. "Mr.
Boyle?"
"Yes. May I come forward?"
"Sure." The Hawken's butt plate thumped on
wood. "You're back from the railhead?"
"So it appears." Michael flexed the cold,
stiff fingers curled around the staff to which he'd tied his
bundle of personal belongings and an oilskin tube
with the drawing carefully rolled inside. "Up a
mite late, aren't you?"
"We stay on watch till the saloon crowd
settles down. We've had three break-ins
lately."
"Ah."
Michael glanced at the slit of light beneath the back
door.
"Your sister's awake, then?"
"Yes, sir." The boy thumped the door, then
pushed it open.
"Hannah? Guess who's here."
IV
Klaus stood aside as Michael climbed the
three creaking steps, grateful to be out of the
wind and damp. He stepped into an immaculate but
crowded room dominated by a massive iron stove.
Curtains partially concealed two beds in alcoves.
Unfinished shelves held jars and boxes of
staples. In the center of the pegged floor stood a
large table that had seen hard use. On the table were a
flickering lamp, ledgers, scribbled slips of
paper, and an open Bible.
Hannah had been seated with her back toward the
porch. She rose as Klaus shut the door from
outside. Her joyous smile reached deep into her
blue-gray eyes.
"Michael!"
He noticed she was wearing a faded gingham dress.
It flattered her figure. "Hello Hannah.
I imagine you're surprised to see me."
"No, I've been expecting you, though I wasn't
certain when."
He caught the clean soap fragrance of her skin.
"I can't believe that."
Still smiling, she walked to a shelf and drew down a
milk glass jar containing something dark. She set the
jar on the table.
"See for yourself."
He lifted the lid. Inhaled the aroma of
pipe tobacco.
"I'm afraid it's dry, but it's all we had in
the store. I've ordered more."
He laughed. "My God. You do have cheek!"
"Faith."
His weariness started to slough away. Gazing into her
eyes, he experienced an unfamiliar and wondrous
sense of calm.
"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Ravenous!"
"Before I fix you some food, I must say something.
I know you have that other woman to think about. I won't
blame you if you do. For a while," she added, teasing
just a little. "I plan to keep you too busy, and too
happy, to bother with her for very long. Now what would you
like to eat?"
"Coffee will be enough-but not yet. I want to say
something as well. I have a bit of money I didn't
mention before-was
A bit of money! God above, that insulted
Amanda's memory, and Jephtha's goodness. He'd
never be able to overcome a sense of guilt at having
taken the inheritance from its rightful possessor. But
circumstance and Jephtha Kent had dictated that he
have it. He wondered how he'd tell Hannah
he'd probably be rich as Croesus before
he died.
Conscience-stricken, he realized why he wasn't
telling her now.
She was waiting for him to finish. "Um," he said,
collecting himself. "The money. I believe I can
draw on it. I thought-I thought it might help buy
goods. Put the place in order." His smile had
grown almost shy.
"That's wonderful, Michael. In Kearney I
saw a piece of property ideal for a store. We
needn't limit ourselves to just one." We
The audacity! He burst out laughing again. "I
don't know why you're so amused," Hannah said in
a cheerfully tart way. "You look wretched. Sit
down. Rest. We'll discuss the store later."
"Hannah-was
"Coffee will be here in just-was
"Hannah."
She turned.
"I must be fair to you. I must warn you."
"My, that sounds forbidding." She hurried on to the
stove.
"Please listen! I've resigned from Casement's
crew. I've come back. But the thing is-was
Exhaling, he thumped the bundle on a
chair.
"I don't know if-ah, damn!"
He faced away from her.
"Are you trying to tell me you're uncertain about
whether you'll stay?"
"Yes, that's it."
She walked back from the stove with a soft rustling of
underskirts. He" peeked over his shoulder. Her
hair and eyes glowed in the lamplight, but it was that
astonishing smile which truly illuminated her face.
"I just don't know, Hannah."
She picked up the jar of tobacco and set it close
to the Bible. Lord, what a lovely sight she was!
How peaceful it seemed in this plain room-
"I do," she said, and put her arms around his neck and
kissed him.
Book Five The Scarlet Woman
Meeting With a Mountebank
BE CAREFUL, Louis Kent thought as he poured
brandy for himself and his guest. Forget the man's
nautical pretensions and his air of butcher-boy
innocence. Remember his reputation. He could be
baiting a pretty trap.
Louis stoppered the decanter. His swarthy hand was
steady. Only his black eyes betrayed his
tension, shifting to the left to see what his visitor was
doing.
The man's fat legs straddled the hearth. His stubby
pink fingers were locked behind his back, exactly as if
he were on the bridge of one of those steamships he
fancied. He was studying the objects above the marble
fireplace of Kentland's overheated library. A
servant had kindled the fire while Louis and his
three guests had dined on boned squab.
Slender and erect, Louis lifted the crystal
snifters and swirled the brandy. The huge
Neo-Gothic house he'd built to indulge his
unlamented former wife was utterly still this January
evening in 1868. All the help had retired to their
quarters on his instructions. Just after arriving,
Louis' male guest had whispered that sending the
servants away might be advisable. Once
business was disposed of, the gentlemen could then enjoy
themselves in privacy.
Upstairs, one of the women laughed. Louis was
startled by his body's sudden and pronounced
reaction. The little ballerina brought along for him was
equally as vapid as Mr. Fisk's inamorata,
an actress named Josie
Mansfield. Neither woman had uttered
an intelligent sentence during dinner.
Intelligence was not a quality Louis Kent demanded
or even found desirable in a woman, however.
Fortunately most women lacked it. He knew from
experience that pretenses in that direction merely led
to trouble.
Still, the companions of Mr. James Fisk,
Junior, were particularly witless. Fisk didn't
seem to mind. During the meal he'd repeatedly
tickled Josie Mansfield's chin, which sent the
other girl into convulsive laughter. The
dark-haired, pale-skinned, and voluptuous Miss
Josie saw nothing improper about tickling Fisk
right back- in front of a relative stranger.
She'd also bussed Fisk's cheek several times, and
called him Sardines, which nearly forced Louis
to retire and throw up.
Now the ladies had gone upstairs to bathe. Quite against
his will, Louis found himself vividly recalling the little
blonde dancer whoch"'@l8professional" name-
Nedda Chetwynd-was almost as ludicrous as her
lack of social graces. Miss Chetwynd had
clearly been brought along as a bribe. He had
no intention of availing himself of the gift until he
spied the trap or, if there was none,
struck a bargain.
Yet the trill of feminine laughter had aroused him.
Annoyingly, he found himself perspiring. His olive
forehead glistened as he continued warming the snifters.
There'd been a January thaw. Fog drifted past
the stained-glass windows at the end of the long,
rectangular library. No lights showed outside.
Kentland stood on the bluffs of the Hudson near
Tarrytown, well separated from neighboring
estates. The isolation was appropriate for a chat
involving polite treachery.
He had to be wary. A mistake, even a wrong
inflection, might cost him everything. The stakes which
had brought Mr. Fisk to Kentland were immense.
Fisk fingered his yellow curls and smacked his lips
as he surveyed the various articles on display.
A scab
barded French sword hung above the mantel.
Immediately below was a polished Kentucky rifle.
On a bookshelf to the left of the hearth stood a
small green bottle containing a thin layer of tea
leaves which would soon be a century old. A
stylized version of the bottle still appeared on the
masthead of Louis Kent's lucrative
newspaper, The New York Union, and
served as the colophon of the Boston printing house
to which he no longer devoted much attention.
was In a corresponding nook on the comother side,
the gaslights glared on the glass front of a
display case with wooden ends. Inside the case, a
slotted velvet pedestal held a tarnished fob
medallion. In front of the pedestal lay a small
circle of tarred rope.
The sword, rifle, and bottle had all been
accumulated by the founder of the family, Philip
Kent. Philip's second son
Gilbert-begetter of Louis" mother, Amanda
Kent-had struck the medallion, incorporating the
tea bottle symbol and adding a pretentious
Latin motto, Cape locum et fac
vestigium. Gilbert had given the medallion
to Amanda's cousin Tared, who had also acquired the
little bracelet. It dated from the 1812 war. The
tarred cordage had come from the frigate popularly
known as Old Ironsides, on which Tared had
served.
With another smack of his lips, the man the press
liked to call Jubilee Jim completed his
survey. He was a red-cheeked New Englander with a
sizable paunch that Louis found
reprehensible in one so young. Fisk was
thirty-three, two years older than his crony, the
melancholy Mr. Gould of the Wall Street
brokerage firm of Smith, Gould, and Martin.
At thirty, Louis Kent was trim, handsome, and
urbane. His father's Spanish blood showed in his
coloring and the Latin cast of his features. Two more
dissimilar conspirators could hardly have been found;
Mr. Fisk looked deceptively soft and
jocular. He enhanced his aura of good-humored
innocence with his wardrobe-
tonight dark blue trousers and a sea captain's
jacket aglow with brass buttons and dripping with
gold frogging.
It seemed improbable that this man who had once
hawked tinware in the Green Mountains and shoveled
up manure in Van Araburgh's Circus was a
power in the American financial community.
Outwardly, Fisk deserved the opprobrius
description uttered by the influential minister,
Harry Ward Beecher: "The supreme mountebank
of fortune." But Louis Kent wasn't deceived
by catchphrases. He knew that behind the clown
demeanor there lurked something far more substantial
than a mind bemused by ballerinas and
braid. Men who allowed themselves to be lulled
by Fisk's facade usually paid dearly.
Louis didn't intend to find himself suddenly included
in that group-no matter what sort of trap
Jubilee Jim was baiting.
ii
"Fascinating collection of trinkets," Fisk
declared. A pudgy hand rose to twist the points of his
Napoleon III moustache. "Have some
significance in the family, do they?"
"They did at one time." Louis handed him the brandy.
"I should have gotten rid of them long ago. The
sword, the rifle, and that tea come from my
great-grandfather."
"The mean-looking fellow whose portrait's in the
drawing room88ness
Louis nodded. "He collected them before or during
the Revolution. Apparently he found some inspiration
in them that I fail to perceive."
To begin convincing Fisk that he was the right sort, he
added, "I'll stand with Sam Adams."
Fisk gulped the brandy as if it were water.
"What'd he have to say?"
"That there wasn't a democracy in the history of the
world that had not eventually committed suicide.
I assume he meant common people were uniformly venal
and gullible. I agree. I don't noise it about,
though. I prefer to take advantage of it while
stump speakers divert the rabble with fairy stories
about the goodness of democracy and humankind."
Fisk waddled to a chair. "Careful, now. In the
Congressional elections a year ago last fall, you
were a pretty hot stump speaker yourself."
Louis flicked a bead of sweat from his lip. The
man was beginning to test him.
"God forbid that you should ever find me standing on a
stump, Mr. Fisk."
The visitor didn't smile. "You addressed
certain dinner parties. Quite a few, Jay reminded
me."
A deliberate thrust, Louis decided. Jay was
a name men feared. It was vital he not seem
intimidated.
"Certainly," he snapped. He sat down
opposite the fat man. "I waved the bloody
shirt just as all good Republicans did. The
objective was to pack the Congress, and we achieved
it. This fall we'll get that drunken tailor out
of the White House and elect someone more amenable
to friendship with business. General Grant,
I hope."
Fisk meditated. "Andy may be out sooner than the
fall. All I hear from Washington is talk of
impeaching him. Thad Stevens and his Congressional
crowd want his scalp." ,
"Johnson was a fool to defy the Tenure of
Office Act by trying to remove Secretary
Stanton from the War Department."
"Still can't see why old Thad's so hell bent on
impeachment, though. Andy was whipped last year when the
military reconstruction bills put the cork in
Lincoln's bottle of sweet forgiveness. The
five military districts down South will soon be
filled with twenty thou-
sand Federal soldiers. Including some nigger
militia, I'm told. I "spose you're in
favor?"
Louis smiled and ignored the obvious bait.
"Mr. Fisk, I don't give a goddamn what
happens down South unless it helps national
elections come out the right way."
"Helps the industrial and financial sector?"
"Exactly."
"You aren't all wild to promote nigger
freedom?"
"Only when it serves the purpose I mentioned."
"You aren't thumping to get 'em treated just like white
men?"
"Absolutely not. They aren't"
Louis drank too much brandy then. It scalded his
throat. He was having a devil of a time convincing
Fisk. The inquisition irritated him. He
supposed it was the price of gaining the man's
confidence.
He hadn't done so yet:
"Don't mean to doubt you, Mr. Kent. Just trying
to establish where you stand. You have been pretty
closely identified with the Radical
Republicans. You were quoted all over the East
Coast before the sixty-six elections -"
Fisk leaned back and closed his eyes in a drowsy
way. was 'Every unregenerate rebel calls himself
a Democrat." his
Louis' hand constricted on the snifter. The foxy
bastard knew his speech by heart!
was "Every man who murdered Union prisoners-who
invented dangerous compounds to burn steamboats and
trains-who contrived hellish schemes to introduce
yellow fever into Northern cities calls himself a
Democrat In short-was
Fisk's eyes popped open. His lips curved
into a cupid's bow smile.
?"'-the Democratic Party may be described as
a
common sewer and loathsome receptacle."" Fisk
sipped. "You were quoted, Mr. Kent."
Louis gave it right back:
"I arranged it, Mr. Fisk. For public
consumption. Hell-was He waggled the snifter. "I
stole most of those words from Oliver Morton of
Indiana."! think it's intelligent to be on the
right side at the right time. But I never permit
politics-or what the public perceives as my
politics-to interfere with business. I chatted with
Mr. Gould at that dinner for major shareholders-was
"Made a good impression, too," Fisk
admitted.
Louis concealed his excitement The offhand remark
partially answered a question he'd been pondering for the past
five days-ever since he'd received the note from his
guest written on the gold-embossed stationery of
Fisk and Belden, Stockbrokers. The note had
requested a confidential meeting.
Louis had sent a reply via messenger, inviting
Fisk to Kentland. But he hadn't been
sure whether Fisk had acted independently. Now
he suspected he hadn't. That made the visit
twice as important. It also meant he was
swimming with two sharks instead of one.
He pressed his advantage:
"Mr. Gould and I discussed a bit of
politics. He said that in a Republican
district, he's a Republican. In a
Democratic district, he's a Democrat. In
a doubtful district, he's doubtful-but he's always
for the New York and Erie Railroad Company.
That's been my position ever since I started
acquiring Erie shares three "years ago."
The fat man's eyes grew curiously opaque as
he heaved himself up from the chair. "Damn fine
brandy."
Louis jumped to take the empty snifter. He
prayed Fisk would overlook the perspiration he
felt on his forehead. He sensed a watershed had
been reached. He hoped he hadn't said the wrong
things.
in
While Louis poured with a hand less steady than before,
another squeal of laughter drifted from the high
reaches of the house.
"Your comments are helpful, Mr. Kent. Don't
mind saying they've increased my confidence in the
outcome of this discussion. With millions up for
grabs, confidence is important."
Louis shuddered with relief. Fortunately Fisk
didn't notice. He had an eye cocked at the
library's arched ceiling. The woman upstairs was still
laughing.
"Time we got down to issues," he said
abruptly. "The ladies might grow impatient
if we dawdle too long. I keep my wife
Lucy up in Boston, but I don't do it solely
to free my schedule for business transactions!"
He winked and snickered like a boy with a lewd
secret. Louis gave him the snifter. "Many
thanks."
Fisk walked to the stained-glass window and peered at
the fog. Louis used the opportunity to whip out a
linen handkerchief and wipe his brow. He had the
kerchief hidden when Fisk turned.
"I think you know the situation, Mr. Kent. In the
next couple of months, the favors of the dear old
Scarlet Woman are going to be fought for like the very
devil." The Scarlet Woman was the Street's
term for the Erie. "That's why Jay and I
decided to approach you now."
There it was. The suspicion confirmed.
Fisk's eyes lost any semblance of
cordiality. "Just where are you going to stand when the war's
declared?"
Louis didn't want to appear too eager. He
shrugged.
"On the winning side, I trust."
"All very well to generalize, but I traveled up
here for specifics! The first test is right around the
corner. Through the board members he controls, the
Commodore wants us to cancel our rate reductions
on freight.
He'd like us to go back to charging the same as his
Central Line." Fisk licked his lower lip.
"But to do that would only settle the dispute his way.
I hope you don't object to candid remarks about the
Commodore, sir?"
More bait. Louis decided not take the whole
piece. He knew the information Fisk was after, but
withheld it.
"Not at all. I'll be even more candid. The
Commodore may be seventy-two years old, but he
still wants to gobble any competition that confronts him.
That's always been his style. We both know
he's after absolute control of the passenger and
freight business between here and the Great Lakes."
Carefully Louis revealed a bit more of his
feelings. "Christ knows where the foul-mouthed old
vulture found his passion for railroads so late in
life."
It was working. Hearing the word vulture, Fisk had,
almost smiled. He put in softly, "Same place
we all did. In our pockets."
"He swallowed up the Harlem and Hudson lines.
Then he got hold of the New York Central but
he still wasn't satisfied. Now he's bought into the
Erie and aims to fix the rates."
Fisk's eyes looked tiny and piercing. "Andwiththe
Erie in his pocket, the game's won. Everyone but
the Commodore comes out a loser."
"I don't propose to be a loser, Mr.
Fisk. He's not going to win."
"You sound as if you're offering guarantees."
"You know I can't do that. I don't have a majority
position with the Boston group. I do have large
holdings, however. The group listens to me. I can
offer a substantial degree of advice. And
I'm wilting."
A genuine smile then. "Capital!"
Louis tried to contain his excitement. To be allied
with the two shrewdest and most powerful men on the
Street not only meant unbelievable
opportunities for profit, it meant prestige.
He'd been jockeying toward
this goal for months. Fisk's note had abruptly
opened the door. Coming so close was almost dizzying.
He feigned a thoughtful, sober attitude:
"But before I say anything further, I must tell you
I do not fully understand the current situation. I
need a clearer picture."
"You just said you're pals with Elbridge and
Jordan!"
"But not privy to every one of their secrets. Or those
of the Erie board."
Fisk pondered. "All right. I assume you're
aware Mr. Elbridge of your group was
Vanderbilt's handpicked president of the Erie?"
"Of course. I was getting at the current
relationship of Drew and the Commodore."
"Strictly business," Fisk snapped.
"Vanderbilt and Uncle Dan'l used to play cards
together, but that's over. So is any pretense of
friendship. Ever since the Commodore started acquiring
stock, he's been very exercised about
Uncle Dan'l's fondness for using Erie money as
if it were his own."
Louis nodded. On the Street, Drew was sometimes
called the Speculative Director. He'd
literally purchased the job of Erie treasurer
by means of loans he'd provided when the road was
foundering. Fisk went on:
"Dan's tapped as much as sixteen million
to operate in the Street. So when Vanderbilt said he
wanted Uncle Dan'l off the board last fall,
your friend Elbridge jumped through a hoop."
"And you and Mr. Gould were somehow spared." Fisk
had no comment. Louis didn't pursue the matter.
He'd be foolish to insist on knowing how that little
rescue operation had been arranged. "But Vanderbilt
reneged-was he prompted. A vigorous nod from
Fisk. "On his own. There was no consultation with your
group, was there?" "None."
"Thought so. Vanderbilt didn't consult anyone, just
forced his position on us through the board members he
owns. The truth is, he got scared. He thought
Dan Drew might be more dangerous out of sight with his
shares and his money than he would be at our table. The
rest of us agreed. So back on the board he
came."
"Not everyone agreed," Louis said. "Frankly,
those of us in the Boston group considered Vanderbilt's
sudden reversal a sellout."
"Even Elbridge?"
"Yes. I'm still puzzled, though. Follow me a
moment, if you will."*
He felt like a man on a rope that spanned an
abyss. A wrong step and he was through.
"Vanderbilt removed Drew from the board, then brought
him back. You and Mr. Gould are allied with
Drew. It's possible all three of you could still be
allied with Vanderbilt."
"Mr. Kent," Fisk purred, "if that were true,
would I be here?"
"You could be testing the opposition."
Louis' audacity brought a grudging chuckle from
Fisk. "You're shrewd, just like Jay said. But it's
tit for tat, sir. Elbridge of your group was
Vanderbilt's tame dog."
"No longer. Not since the sellout."
"Are you speaking personally, or for the group?"
"Well, Elbridge and Jordan and the others-I
suppose it's conceivable the Commodore could
placate them somehow." He put the offer in plain
sight. "Provided someone in the group
isn't actively working to prevent it."
"Such as yourself?"
"Draw your own conclusions."
"No, sir. I want it said plain. Are you ready
to sell the Commodore out? Form another alliance?
Influence your group to stand fast against him?"
"II the reward is sufficiently generous."
"How generous?"
Louis' fingers curled against his palms, pressing
hard. His gaze remained locked with Fisk's.
"I had in mind a seat on the board. A
directorship."
Fisk didn't react. Louis was sure he'd
asked for too much. Overstepped-
Then Jubilee Jim's laugh boomed.
"That's a coincidence, Mr. Kent. Jay sent me
up here to offer you just that."
The Tame Dog
"WELL, SIR? DO WE HAVE A
BARGAIN?"
Louis wanted to give Fisk an immediate yes. He
was more than willing to be bought; he was eager. But he
didn't want the man thinking him too compliant.
"We're very close."
Fisk's smile disappeared. "There's
something else?"
"I'd like a further clarification of your connection with
Vanderbilt."
"There is none!"
"I'm sorry, but there's Drew. You and Mr.
Gould are again closely associated with that
hymn-singing old robber."
Blandly, Fisk said, "Dan Drew brought Jay
and myself onto the board last October. Since then,
we have never been disassociated. But as I indicated
before, the friendly relationship between Drew and the Commodore
has been dissolved."
"Does the Commodore know?"
Fisk's grin was sly. "He will before long. Don't
be too concerned with appearances, Mr. Kent. When
you've gained a bit more experience in this sort of
thing-was
Tact prompted Louis to let the deliberate
slur pass without reply.
"comy'll learn that only two things matter. How much
stock you control, and whether you're in a position
to influence the price."
The fat man was right, of course. In the last
decade,
the Erie line from Jersey City to Buffalo
had been a speculator's dream. After insinuating
himself as treasurer. Drew had repeatedly used his
position to advantage. His biggest and most
spectacular killing had been in '66, when he'd
played his favorite role-the bear.
Erie stock had been trading at a relative high
of ninety-five: Bemused by false hopes of a
price rise, the bulls had agreed to buy shares from
Drew which they assumed he did not as yet own. They
believed the old man was mistakenly gambling that the
value of Erie shares would fall.
But Drew hadn't been gambling. He'd known
exactly what he was about. He quickly manipulated
the price of Erie downward from ninety-five
to fifty by dumping twenty-eight thousand units of
unissued stock along with other shares resulting from
conversion of roughly three million in Erie bonds.
Something like fifty-eight thousand shares all told
deflated the price just as Drew had planned. It
had come out later that he'd amassed the secret hoard
of stock and bonds as security for one of his loans.
The bulls were trapped. Because of their prior
commitment, they were forced to pay ninety-five for shares
worth fifty. There was no regulatory agency
to even wag a finger. Those not involved
laughed-enviously. Those who'd been caught
recalled too late the caustic maxim of the
Street: "Dan'l says up, Erie goes up.
Dan'l says down, Erie goes down. Dan'l
says wiggle-waggle. Erie bobs both ways."
Louis himself would be in a position to participate in
such a coup if he gained a seat on the board. It
all depended on the outcome of this conversation. Three
factions were involved. One was Vanderbilt, who
wanted the freight rates fixed.
The second faction consisted of Drew and his newfound
friends, Gould and Fisk. They wanted to dominate the
line. for precisely the reason Louis hoped
to ally
himself with them-the profit that could be milked from stock
manipulation.
The third group, membership in which had brought Louis
to the threshold of this stunning opportunity, was
nominally led by the Boston money men John
Elbridge and Eben Jordan. They sought control
of the Erie not only to jiggle its stock, but also
to shore up one of their own projects, a planned but
as yet unfinished feeder line called the Boston,
Hartford, and Erie. In the spring of the preceding year,
the backers of the B. H. and E. had
arranged a subsidy from the state of
Massachusetts to help complete the line. In
order to make the funds flow; an ever larger sum
had to be raised from outside-sources.
Louis remained on the offensive. "I'll grant
what you say is true, Mr. Fisk. There's still
one thing I don't understand."
Fisk fiddled with a curl. "I thought I was asking the
questions tonight. But go ahead."
"I'm flattered you and Mr. Gould chose
to approach me. Still, it would be more logical for you to go
straight to one of the Boston board members."
"Jay'd be happy to," Fisk said blithely.
"Then we wouldn't need you at all. I'm the fly in
the ointment. Old Eben and I don't get along."
"I've heard that. But Jordan's close-mouthed
on certain subjects. I didn't know whether it was
a fact or a rumor."
"Fact. During the war, he and I had a
falling-out. I was arranging cotton deals for him.
The son of a bitch decided my expenses were running
too high. He discharged me. You were into cotton
yourself, weren't you?"
That was a sore point:
"I intended to be. My second cousin had
different ideas."
"Who is he, some Government busybody?"
"No, at the time he was a reporter. Today he's a
cheap-jack Methodist preacher. He lives in the
city. He, my mother's Irish clerk, and that Jew
banker, Rothman, decided my little venture was
immoral. They spilled the whole story to the
press."
"Must have missed the item. Probably appeared when
I was working the Western Theater for Eben."
"Well, I was out of cotton before I got in."
"The luck of the game, Mr. Kent. I spent my
cotton days in Memphis. Dealt with some
first-rate gentlemen of the Confederacy through a charming
go-between. Little actress. Hot piece, she was."
,Fisk's pink lips curled in a smile of
pride.
"Never got caught, either. I was giving Eben all
the goddamn cotton he could mill. He delivered
Jordan Marsh blankets to the Army and cleaned
up. But he got scared by some prying from Union
headquarters. He used my expenses as an
excuse. Know what he handed me in severance pay?
A measly sixty-five thousand dollars. I
haven't any cause to be friends with Mr.
Eben Jordan. Actually, I think Jay and I
will ultimately be glad we had to deal with you. You
strike me as our sort."
Our sort. Louis couldn't resist a moment of
self-congratulation. Both Fisk and Jay Gould
were giants on the Street. To be accepted as their
confidante was a supreme accolade.
He decided it was time to abandon the pose of
reluctance. He helped himself to a perfecto from an
inlaid box. He lit up and sniffed the fragrant
smoke.
"Thank you for saying so, Mr. Fisk. You've
answered my questions."
"Hell!" Fisk cried with a flamboyant
gesture. "We're getting on well enough to drop the
courtesies. Let's make it Louis and Jim."
Louis smiled through a veil of smoke. "Happy
to, Jim."
"Do we have a bargain?"
"We do. I'll exert every effort to see the Boston
group sides with you and Mr. Gould."
"Your effort have got to be discreet until the
directors meet and the Commodore's men actually
put a motion to fix freight rates on the table."
"No one will ever hear about this meeting. When
the motion's made, I feel confident it will go
down."
Fisk's chubby lips quivered. He was pleased.
"As soon as that happens, the directorship's
yours. "Course, holding a board seat won't be
all roses. When the Commodore's motion is
defeated, he'll know he has a scrap on his
hands. Jay and I reckon he'll try like hell
to capture a majority position in the stock so he
can merge the line into the Central or let it die
altogether."
"I'm prepared to fight," Louis returned
quietly. "Fm confident we'll win."
Fisk laughed again. "Jay's going to be fond of
you, Louis."
"I'm not in this for compliments. When you spy a money
machine, you don't turn your back. I've done
well with my steel interests, the spinning works in
Rhode Island, the newspaper, and everything else
I own."
"Jay likes the notion of your having that sheet.
He's always been a keen student of using publicity
to his favor."
"I've only lost one money machine in all my
career. That cotton-trading company."
A memory of Julia disturbed him. In her own
way, hadn't she been such a machine?
Deliberately acquired to improve his social
standing and thereby gain him introductions to men like
Vanderbilt, who could and did suggest investment
opportunities? He'd lost her too.
The loss was even more humiliating than the collapse
of Federal Suppliers. He could comprehend how that
company had been ruined. The reason for the destruction
of his marriage still eluded him. He continually fell
Back on the easiest explanation. Julia had
lost her mind.
"I guarantee we'll use the paper
to advantage, Jim. In fact, to get what we
want, I'm not averse to using any means
available."
Fisk slapped the arm of his chair. "Louis, you're
a fighter! I'd heard that. Takes a man with
nerve to ride in General Lee's Left Wing.
Jay did."
Louis preened. The term referred to gold
speculation, which he and others in the North had engaged
in profitably during the war, ignoring Washington's
pleas that the currency must be kept sound.
The perfecto tasted better by the moment.
He'd really done a good evening's work. Aligned
with the winning side in what the Street was already calling
the Erie War, he could conceivably wind up
increasing his net worth five-or tenfold.
Abruptly, the euphoric mood disappeared.
Fisk had a mild frown on his face. He
scrutinized Louis while he scratched the front
of his ostentatious jacket. Then he stunned the other
man:
"I surely hope we can trust you."
"My God, we have a bargain! Why would you
doubt-?"
The tiny eyes never bunked.
"I believe at one time you were pretty thick with
Vanderbilt yourself." Fisk was demanding the information
Louis had held back earlier.
"Correction." Face darkening, Louis jumped
up. "My former wife's father, Oliver Sedgwick,
was thick with Vanderbilt. That's how I became
interested in the speculative side of the railroad
business. Sedgwick's dead. And I haven't
played whist at Vanderbilt's house since I
divorced Julia a year ago,"
Liar. She divorced you.
"Reassuring," Fisk murmured. "Jay
will be heartened. Uncle Dan'l will be heartened.-was
The fat man relaxed again. "Hate to say it, but in
many ways
old Daniel's a simpleton. Robs the road
six days a week and sings hymns at St.
Paul's on Sunday to salve his conscience. He's
wild to build more seminaries and have them named after him.
Jay and myself, we have no such ambitions. We're in
this and everything else to make money-and by Jesus have a
good time doing it!"
Fisk thumped his snifter down. Louis" tension
drained away. He could appreciate why the
hostile press had little good to say for the proper and
happily married Gould, but tinged its columns about
the "railroad pirates" with grudging admiration of
Fisk. Unless you peered closely into his eyes,
or paid strict attention to what he said, the man had
a bumptious likability which the yellow curls,
plump cheeks, and luxuriant moustahios only
enhanced.
Gould, by contrast, struck many people as downright sinister.
Even now, Louis could see him vividly. It was not
a comforting image.
Fisk's partner was barely five foot six inches,
with a tubercular cast to his features. He
wore a full beard to conceal what he must have
considered a weak face. But Louis had come to judge
men by their eyes. Gould's lacked any trace of
human emotion. Coupled with a murmurous voice and a
habit of rarely speaking above a confidential
whisper, he inspired respect and sometimes terror
among his adversaries. As should any man who'd
earned his first million dollars by age twenty-one.
At a recent dinner gathering of holders of
substantial blocs of Erie, Gould had differed
with one of Drew's opinions, and imperiously
overridden his objections. Afterward, old Drew had
whispered to Louis in a shaken voice:
"That man, Kent-that man's touch is death."
Remembering, Louis shivered. He didn't intend
to get on the wrong side of Mr. Jay Gould.
To do so would not only be unprofitable but downright
dangerous.
"Glad we've settled things," Fisk said as he
lumbered to his feet. He rubbed his hands together and
bounced on his toes. "Disreputable and shabby as she
is, there's still gold in the Scarlet Lady's
drawers. And you're right, no sensible fellow
surrenders a money machine. I was wiped out twice
in the Street right after the war. Uncle
Dan'l came to me needing cash to tighten his hold
on the Erie. I helped the old fool unload his
Stonington Steamboat Line-con-God, I love
those boats. Must own a line myself one of these days.
I'll make it the fanciest the world's ever seen.
Marble and mirrors in the saloons! Caged
canaries singing in every-well, never mind that. Let's
just say I made a smart move getting next to that
pious cow drover. You made the same kind of move
tonight. We don't have a thing to worry about."
Louis looked faintly cynical. "Except
Commodore Vanderbilt's brains, his thirty
millions of capital, and the gentlemen he keeps
in his pocket. Judge Barnard of the Supreme
Court fifth district, for example. Vanderbilt can
spew out injunctions the way the Treasury turns out
coins."
But Fisk had clearly tabled such concerns for the
remainder of the evening:
"Let's fret about that when he starts doing it. Right
now I feel good about the whole operation.
"Course-was A shrug. "I always feel good working
with Jay. He's got the brains and I've got the
brass." He laid a pudgy arm across Louis"
back. "You'll see. You're one of us
now."
Louis was faintly repelled by the odor of sweat
oozing from his guest's collar and cuffs. Fisk
bubbled on:
"We should join the ladies, don't you think? Oh,
but before we do-was
A soft hand closed on Louis' arm. He was again
jolted by a change in Fisk's tone.
"Maybe it's not necessary to say this straight out. Still,
we shouldn't have any misunderstandings."
"No, we shouldn't," Louis agreed, disturbed by the
glint in Fisk's eyes. "Do we?"
A shrug. "Not so long as you keep one fact in
mind. Jay and myself, we call and play the tune.
I'm an easygoing fellow-was
Louis doubted that, but said nothing.
"But Jay always wants to be firmly in command. No
interference. No arguments. Nothing said or done
to muck up his plans, or embarrass him."
"In other words, if I'm a tame dog-was
"That's a pretty harsh way to put it, Louis."
Fisk smiled. "But a good one. If you ever cross
Jay by choice or by accident, you, not Jay, will come
out hurt. That's why I threw in with him. He's
been a scrapper since he was a little tad
helping his pa tend cows on the family farm up
by West Settlement. I don't believe Jay's
pa thought very much of him. Too frail. Kind of
disappointed the old man, Jay did--one boy
among five sisters. From the start, I think Jay
wanted to show his pa-maybe the whole damn world-that a
thick arm doesn't count for as much as a smart head.
People say there's sharp blood in Jay's veins,
too. Jew blood. His great-grandfather led militia
in the Revolution, only his name was Colonel
Abraham Gold. The family started calling itself
Gould around 1800. There's a lot of reasons
Jay's a fighting cock. No man's ever bested
him that I heard about."
The fat man's tongue worked across his lower lip,
leaving a gleam of saliva.
"No man," he repeated. "Old Charles
Leupp tried."
Louis had never met Leupp, but he was familiar
with the story. Leupp had been a respected New
York leather merchant who prided himself on
personal integrity. He'd bought a sixty-thousand
dollar partnership in a Pennsylvania tannery
Jay Gould had acquired before
he was of legal age. The original
tannery partner, Zadoc Pratt, had seen the
enterprise thrive under young Gould's managerial
ability. But profits appeared skimpy. When
Pratt accused Gould of diverting funds for
private speculation and doctoring the books to cover
his deceit, Gould's reply was reportedly a
sardonic smile and a shrug.
Gould offered to buy Pratt's interest using money
obtained from Mr. Leupp. The second partner was
mulcted just like the first. Leupp discovered Gould had
used his name and his capital to effect a corner on
hides. Confronted again, Gould admitted his
crooked behavior. Threats of legal action
merely made him laugh. And he was unmoved
by claims that he'd soiled Leupp's good name.
Nothing moved Jay Gould save the prospect of a
success achieved by speculating with huge sums of
money compreferably other people's. He wished Charles
Leupp good luck if the firm were dragged
into bankruptcy. Leupp went back to his New
York mansion, contemplated his dishonored status,
and shot himself to death with a hand gun.
The point of the reference wasn't lost on Louis:
*
"I know what happened to Leupp. You can
assure Mr. Gould I won't oppose him, or
embarrass him in any way,"
Still, Fisk's oblique threat was ,hard to swallow.
He disliked hearing the truth when it was couched in a
phrase such as tame dog. He tried to remember
the main chance; the millions to be made milking the
Erie.
"Just wanted you to understand," Fisk nodded. "No
pussyfooting between partners, eh?"
He slapped Louis' shoulder. "Time to frolic!
Did your butler send up the champagne?"
"He had orders. Three bottles to each room."
Louis opened the door, relieved to escape the
stuffy library. Gaslights flickering in the entrance
hall cast a bloated shadow of Fisk against the
wall as the men
strolled to the opulent staircase and started for the
second floor. Fisk rambled on with other
anecdotes complimentary to his partner.
They walked down a long corridor to an
intricately carved door. When Fisk opened it,
Louis saw the dark-haired young woman standing before the
blaze in the hearth. Her body was barely concealed
by a thin gown.
Josie Mansfield hurried forward.
"Sardines, I thought you were going to leave me by myself
all night!"
"Be with you in a moment, Dolly."
The actress remained near the door. Fisk's
voice grew a shade heavier.
"I said I'll be with you in a moment."
Josie slipped out of sight. Fisk was unsmiling.
"Anything bothering-you, Louis?"
His chin lifted. "Yes." In spite of the
dictates of good sense, he blurted, "I don't
care to be called anyone's tame dog."
"That's what you are, though. Bought and paid for."
He chuckled. It had a hard sound.
"Being a tame dog isn't so bad, Louis. When
the rest of the world's freezing and starving, tame dogs
stay warm and well fed. Keep that in mind. Keep
Charles Leupp in mind,-too."
He reached up to loosen his black sailor's
cravat. He was still smiling as the door closed.
The Portrait
LOUIS DIDN'T BOTHER to knock before entering his
own rooms farther down the hall. He surprised
Nedda Chetwynd, who was blonde,
dumpling-cheeked, twenty-one, and eminently
forgettable.
She sat naked in bed, her breasts coyly covered
by the silk sheet. She'd already opened one of the
champagne bottles in the silver stand. One hand
clutching the sheet, she used the other to sip from a
goblet. Her smile was hesitant.
He didn't return it. Why should he? The girl
meant nothing to him. He was sure Fisk had given
her explicit instructions, and promised her a
handsome present afterward.
He scowled when his body responded to the girl's
nearness. He hated to dignify disher that way. He
reminded himself he was experiencing a reaction solely
because his encounters with women had grown less and less
frequent during the past year. The press of his
personal affairs kept him" too busy and, often,
too tired.
He stripped off his coat and cravat, then reached
up to trim the recently installed gas jet near the
oil portrait of Julia. He spun away and
attended to the other ornate fixtures around the
room, conscious of the girl watching him as she drank
champagne in a revoltingly noisy way.
Ah, well. No point fretting about her manners.
She'd serve her purpose and he'd never be forced
to see her again.
The Portraitea579
Although the walls between the upstairs rooms were thick,
Josie Mansfield's high-pitched laugh was loud
enough to catch his attention. Then came a great bullish
bellow from Fisk. Almost at once, the bed in the
adjacent room began to creak. The rhythmic
noise quickened with astonishing rapidity.
"Ill be with you in a moment, my dear." He
didn't glance at the girl as he said it.
He stepped into his dressing room, closed the
door part way, and began to remove the rest of his
clothing. Even in the smaller chamber, the racket of
Fisk's bed was audible.
He had to admit some of the man's crude ways
repelled him. On the other hand, Fisk
definitely was not stupid. Despite the remarks
about tame dogs, Louis vowed not to think badly of his
new partner. Fisk had given him exactly what
he wanted. A directorship was nothing less than
a mandate to steal from the poor old Scarlet
Woman.
In the past couple of years, the Erie had become
notorious because of its directors and its condition.
The press, with a few notable exceptions which included
the Union, constantly decried the line's
lack of service to the public.
The hope of such service was, of course,
pathetic. "Twin streaks of rust" was a popular
term for the Erie and it was a fitting one. The line's
seven hundred-plus miles of track were ancient
and dangerous. Its rolling stock was a disgrace.
Collisions and derailments took place almost every
week, as did injuries and lossstof life. Just after
New Year's, another switchman had been
permanently crippled in the main yards in Jersey
City.
Many journalists and labor radicals persisted in
spreading the ludicrous idea that the Erie
directorate had a responsibility to its
passengers and employees. Such esteemed "thinkers"
as Charles Francis Adams the younger, the son of
Lincoln's war ambassador to
Britain, seemed to believe the burgeoning
American rail system was somehow intended to benefit
the public. If Adams and men like him had had any
appreciation of the realities of life, they'd understand
that damned few miles of track would have been laid
anywhere in the nation if the entrepreneurs hadn't cared
more for their purses than for people. The sole function of a
railroad was to make money for the insiders.
And the only railroad men admired on the
Street-and secretly admired by the dim-witted
masses, Louis was convinced-were those who understood a
line's purpose and acted accordingly.
Now he was one of those men. Or he soon would be.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced he'd
been foolish to object to Fisk's bluntness. He
could and would submerge his pride and self-esteem
to make sure he did nothing to embarrass or irk
Messrs. Drew, Fisk, and Gould.
The reward would be well worth it.

He donned a silk robe, dimmed the gas, and
returned to the bedroom. Nedda Chetwynd wiped
champagne from her chin, still smiling her fatuous
smile.
"May I call you Louis?"
He shrugged. "If you wish." He was growing
impatient. Why had he even bothered with the robe?
He knew. That damned painting. He forced himself
to glance at it. As always, the pale blue eyes
seemed to mock him.
Fisk's trollop helped herself to more champagne.
Louis found himself continuing to stare at the porcelain
face on the canvas. The picture
generated feelings of humiliation and hatred. Why had
he kept it?
In a slurred voice, the blonde girl asked,
"Is that the lady to whom you were married?"
""That is indeed."
"She's pretty."
"She was until she lost her mind."
Miss Chetwynd almost spilled her drink. "You
mean she's locked away?"
"She should be. She got mixed up with that idiotic
woman's movement. She began complaining she was being
used like a household object. That's a woman's
primary function-to be used-was
Louis sat down on the edge of the bed. He pushed the
sheet away and fondled the girl's nipple.
"To give pleasure. In the kitchen, or here."
The stupid slut could only giggle.
"The next thing I knew, Julia was equating herself
with the niggers."
Astonishment: "With the-?"
"You heard me. Niggers. She's always despised
them, but overnight they became her sublime
symbol! If the niggers are free, she said, why
should women be denied voting and property rights? That's
one argument Mrs. Stanton, Mrs.
Stone, Susan Anthony, and the rest of that deranged
crowd use to justify their bizarre ideas. The moment
my wife took up with those harridans, the result
was inevitable."
Louis was talking quietly and for his own benefit.
There was a certain relief in speaking aloud in an
attempt to sort out the incomprehensibilities of the
recent past.
Not that he was having any luck. His troubled and
vaguely baffled expression was genuine. Although
he'd listened to dozens of Julia's tirades before
she'd departed in December of 1866, he still could not
understand her reasoning-or what had changed her in a
period of three or four years from a demanding child to an
adult with a frightening degree of independence.
As far as he could recollect, her complaints about
being used dated all the way to "61, shortly
after the disastrous meeting at Kentland when Boyle,
Rothman, and his mother's mulatto mine supervisor
from California, Israel Hope, had refused
to endorse the formation of Federal Suppliers.
Something had happened to Julia that spring. Exactly
what, he couldn't guess. Nor would she speak of it
when he questioned her. Whatever it was, it had been the
start of their difficulties.
She'd begun mentioning the Irishman, to whom she'd
never paid more than the most perfunctory attention before.
Sometimes she was warm in her praise of Boyle's
stand about Federal Suppliers, or of his character generally.
At other times-in a totally contradictory way-
she spoke his name with what amounted to barely
suppressed anger. Louis had tried to laugh off that
particular paradox by telling himself she was being
typically feminine. It didn't work. "Typical"
femininity was precisely what Julia was shedding in
slow, inexplicable, and horrifying stages.
Her complaints about being "used" dated from the spring of
1861 as well. So did her resistance of her
husband's intimate advances. She'd moderated her
crusade briefly in '62; that was when their only
child, Carter, had been conceived. The calm was
short-lived. Somehow Julia had heard gossip
about Louis' involvement with a salesgirl from a
Manhattan shop. The war had resumed.
By the time she left him, taking then: four-year-old
son-no loss; Carter was a vile brat who
constantly wanted Louis' attention-Julia had
become a model of calm, rational determination.
Terrifying!
He'd commissioned her portrait for one of
their earliest anniversaries. Many times since
'66, he'd come close to ordering the painting
burned. Yet he hadn't done it
Perhaps the picture served as a cautionary warning.
He'd already taken a silent pledge that he'd never
become entangled with another woman. A woman was
like a bad investment: too many unpredictable and
therefore unacceptable risks. He was willing
to undertake risks of the kind to which he'd committed himself
by sealing the pact with Fisk. At least that type of
risk offered a chance of profit. With a woman, the
best you could hope for was to maintain status quo.
No, he was through with anything other than casual
relationships with members of the opposite sex. Perhaps
he kept the painting to strengthen that resolve.
Nedda Chetwynd was watching him in a puzzled,
almost nervous way. He feigned a smile,
plucked the goblet from her hand, and tossed it to one
side without looking. The glass broke, tinkling.
He stood up and removed his robe. For a moment he
wasn't the least self-conscious about standing naked in
front of Julia's portrait. He rather enjoyed
it.
He peeled the silk sheet away, disappointed in the
smallness of the girl's breasts. But her
stomach was plump and pink.
She simpered at the reaction in his loins. But she
let out a cry when he pulled her out of bed.
Belly to belly with her, Louis gave her a quick
kiss. She was practiced. Her tongue licked
languorously while she reached for him with a caressing
hand.
He pushed it away. "One more thing about my former
wife, Miss Chetwynd-was
"Oh, do call me Nedda!"
He tried to hide his disgust. "Very well. Nedda.
I should just like to observe that my wife's, ah, problem
was essentially a simple one-was
Liar. To the hour he died, Julia's notions would
remain aberrations, and the reason for them a mystery.
"She failed to understand where a woman belongs."
He took hold of Nedda's shoulders. The
pressure of
his grip made her wince. All round eyes and red
round mouth, she gazed at his hugeness, then at his
face.
Softly, he said:
"Let's find out whether you do, shall we?"
The Man in the Burned Shawl
THE FEBRUARY TWILIGHT softened the
raw look of the cottages along General Wayne
Street in Jersey City. Gideon Kent stood
by the parlor window, his good eye narrowed as he studied
the black clouds billowing in from the northwest.
Snow storm coming. After nearly two years he could
recognize the signs.
Raised in Virginia's temperate Shenandoah
Valley, he still wasn't accustomed to the Northern
weather. Seldom in his boyhood had Lexington
received more than an occasional powdering of winter white.
Up here, bitter winds blew for days at a time, and
snow piled into loaf-like drifts that were slow to melt.
Since autumn he'd already endured three such
storms. Tonight there was obviously going to be another.
The thought had only a marginal connection with his own
safety. He seldom fretted about that any longer,
although Margaret worried a good deal. The threatening
sky reminded him vividly of Augustus Kolb.
It had snowed the night after New Year's, when an
accident had destroyed Kolb's life in a few
seconds.
The memory called up a second one. He thought
of the man to whom he'd listened a couple of hours
ago, down at the Diamond n Lager
Palace.
Because of the man's reputation, the Diamond n
proprietor forced him to convene his discussion group in
the saloon storeroom. Even now Gideon could
smell
the sawdust and see the visitor's lined, exhausted
face. The weary yet somehow spirited eyes. The
powerful-looking hands resting on threadbare knees as
the Philadelphian leaned forward to exhort the nine
switchmen in the Erie yards. They had gathered to see
what if anything they could do for Augie Kolb and his
family.
"You can do nothing," the man told them, "unless you
organize. That's the only way we've made
gains in the Iron Molders' International."
"We ain't mechanics, Sylvis." a man named
Cassidy complained. "We ain't skilled like your
journeymen."
The emaciated man plucked at the shawl he wore
over his thin overcoat. The shawl was virtually in
tatters, pierced by black-edged holes. Sylvis
claimed that for every foundry or cluster of foundries
he'd organized into a local, he could count a
hole burned by molten iron. There were dozens of
holes.
"Makes no difference," Bill Sylvis
replied. "The principle's the same.
Single-handedly you can accomplish nothing of substance
or permanence. United, there's no power of wrong you
can't defy. I want you-to think about that. And think
of Kolb's wife Gerda. She's related to a
man in our Philadelphia local. He asked
me comto take the train up here and talk with you."
Gideon was sitting cross-legged in a corner at
the very back of the group. He'd only come because Kolb
had been a friend. He had little interest in meeting a
radical like Sylvis. So he was surprised when
he found the man and inch"message commanding his
attention. He was prompted to speak up:
"I suppose it's the same principle General
Stuart taught us."
Sylvis craned his head. "What's that? Who
spoke?"
"Reb Kent back there," said one of the others, though
not unkindly.
Gideon raised his hand. "During the war I rode
with Jeb Stuart's cavalry. He taught us
to stick together in
the field. The more of us there were, he said, the safer
we'd be-and the greater the chance we'd be able to execute
our orders."
Bill Sylvis nodded in an emphatic way.
"That's it exactly. In Kolb's case, an
appeal by a few men will probably accomplish
nothing. But if a number of men-all the men in the
yards-join forces and strike, they can effect a
change. We learned that in the Molders. It's a
lesson I travel ten thousand miles a year
to promote."
A friend of Daphnis Miller uttered a glum
chuckle. Miller had been pessimistic about the
value of the conclave. He was out in the saloon
proper, swilling beer. There was no question about the
value of that.
Said Miller's friend, "We raise our heads out of the
trench, we'll bring change, all right. We'll
bring a flock of damn niggers or greenhorn
immigrants to the yard. The bosses will replace
us!"
Rather than disagreeing, Sylvis nodded in a grave
way. "That is the great weapon the employers hold
over us. We must find such a weapon ourselves."
"There isn't any."
"Oh, yes, there is. It's so obvious we
overlook it. I did for many years, and even now I
hesitate to express the idea
publicly. It wouldn't be popular. But it's
inescapable. If labor is ever to win a lasting
victory, it must include everyone in its ranks.
Everyone. The skilled will have to combine with the unskilled.
I suppose that means women will have to be admitted
to labor organizations. Black men too."
The quiet statement brought an uproar of protest.
Sylvis raised a hand.
"I didn't come to that conclusion easily. I know
laboring men think of unions as the purview of the
skilled trades. And I once believed the
nigras were a threat to every white fellow who sweated
for a living. But I've begun to change my mind. The
Negro is no longer a slave, but neither is he
free." The intense eyes shone as
he scanned the troubled faces. "Neither are you
free. We're slaves together. We must put off
our slavery together."
"It's been tried!" objected a burly
switchman named Rory I Bannock. "Five
years ago, twelve railroaders got together out in
Detroit to start the Brotherhood of the Footboard.
They wanted post-mortem benefits for widows of
men killed on the job. They had to meet in secret
for fear they'd be fired. Whole business
never amounted to anything."
"I expect it would have if they'd stuck with it,"
Sylvis countered.
"Don't be too sure. Boys on the B and O
wanted to approach one of the bosses with some complaint
or other. They were discharged just for askin" for an
appointment!"
Sylvis' eyes had a melancholy cast. "I
never said the struggle would be easy. It "hasn't
been in the Molders. But when you organize-was
"We organize ourselves out of a job!" Bannock
exclaimed.
Most agreed. Loudly.
"I agree solidarity isn't without its risks-was
Sylvis began.
Cassidy gestured. "Let someone else take
"em. I got six kids."
Sylvis looked disappointed. So did the
switchmen. They'd hoped Sylvis would recommend
some quick and simple plan for securing financial
assistance for Augie Kolb and his brood. Instead,
he was speaking of abstract matters. Wage
slavery. The union movement. A long-range
strategy instead of a short-term panacea.
Gideon sat frowning, barely aware of the
racket from the saloon. The objections notwithstanding,
he suspected the soft-spoken Philadelphian
might be right. At the First Manassas, he'd
learned the value of standing
together. He'd taken a few men off on his own and
damn near gotten shot to death by a dying Yankee.
He wanted to help Augustus Kolb's family.
But Bill Sylvis poured bitter medicine. He
was realistic about the possibility of firings if
demands were made. He'd upset and disappointed the
switchmen. His candor about eventual mingling of the
races in the labor movement hadn't helped either.
Gideon Kent and every other man in the storeroom
needed their jobs. That was the difficulty which brought the
meeting to a swift and inconclusive end.
All the way home, Gideon had been unable
to get forty-year-old William Sylvis out of his
thoughts. Now, at the window, the approaching snowstorm
again reminded him of the chief officer of the strongest of the
nation's fledgling trade unions.
Sylvis was well known among working men. He'd
personally built the Molders into a network of over
a hundred and thirty-five locals. He'd held
sometimes reluctant iron workers off their jobs and
won a major settlement with the foundry
owners who'd staged the famous Albany Lockout of
"66. He constantly promoted the formation of
worker-owned cooperative foundries as caret an
alternative to the existing iron and steel
establishment. And he was being mentioned as a potential
president of the National Labor Union, a
relatively new association of workers'
assemblies, union locals, reformers, and
eight-hour leagues pushing for a shorter work day.
Still, the price Bill Sylvis had paid for his
achievements was quite apparent. He'd been shunted
into the anonymity of a storeroom because even small
businessmen considered him dangerous. His clothes were
hardly better than rags. His health looked none
too good,
either. At the meeting he'd declined all
refreshment, saying he had a persistent stomach
condition. He'd worn himself out-and, Gideon had
read, kept his family in poverty-for the trade
union cause.
In fact Sylvis had looked fragile and almost
forlorn when he left the meeting and walked into the dark
day with only his thin overcoat and that burned shawl
to protect him. Gideon could still see the ends of the
shawl fluttering like bullet-pierced
flags.
The image vanished as he chafed his hands to warm them.
The cottage parlor was dingy and frigid. The
ancient floral wallpaper had a sooty tinge.
Wind whistled through gaps in the siding.
The old walnut clock on a rickety table
chimed half-past five. Gideon couldn't
wholeheartedly admit Sylvis was right. To do so would
compel a man to think of taking the next logical
step. Like the others gathered at the Lager Palace,
he wasn"t prepared to do it. Times were too hard;
work too scarce.
From the kitchen came the sound of Margaret starting
Eleanor's bath. In the midst of the splashing, she
called to him:
"Gideon? Your supper's ready."
"I'll be there."
But he remained at the window, his gaze fixed on the
ruts of frozen mud and the shabbily identical
houses straggling toward the river. His next door
neighbor, Daphnis Miller, said the only way
a man who enjoyed his beer could find his way to the right
bed after imbibing was to count cottages starting at the
corner.
Miller was a generous man. In less than
half a year's time, he'd also become a good friend.
Last summer, after being discharged from three successive
jobs because of his Southern background, Gideon had
recalled meeting the trainman at Relay House.
In desperation, he'd ridden the ferry to Jersey
City.
He'd expected Miller to be long gone or, if
he were
still employed, to have forgotten him. Certainly he'd have
forgotten his casual invitation for Gideon to look
him up if he ever needed employment.
On all counts Gideon had been wrong.
Miller had introduced him to the superintendent who
hired switchmen. Gideon's infirmity had
produced a gale of disbelieving laughter.
But the superintendent hadn't turned him down flat.
Despite depressed economic conditions and a
scarcity of jobs in the industrial East, few men
were hungry enough to risk themselves working for a line as
disreputable as the Erie. Even so, Gideon had
found it necessary to plead his case for almost fifteen
minutes:
He was strong. His tall frame and wide shoulders
attested to it. He'd regained most of the weight
he'd lost in prison.
He was agile. He'd been a cavalryman during
the war.
He'd had to argue heatedly about his eye, though. He
thumped the superintendent's desk and informed him he
could march into any Army recruiting office and sign
up instantly for one of the new regiments of Plains
cavalry. If one-eyed men were acceptable to General
Hancock or young General Custer-a soldier
Gideon tried not to hate for leading the Wolverine
horsemen who'd killed Beauty Stuart-then
dammit, they should be acceptable to the Erie
Railroad! Coupling cars couldn't be any more
perilous than facing a band of rampaging Sioux
Indians.
The superintendent remarked wryly that Gideon
might be surprised, but agreed to give him a try.
The man's expression said he didn't expect
Gideon to last long. That only increased
Gideon's determination to succeed.
The work did prove as dangerous as Miller had
suggested on that afternoon at Relay House. A man
was killed or injured every few weeks. Gideon
constantly
had to soothe Margaret's anxiety, reminding her
he'd finally found employment that would keep
him out in the weather, which he liked. Except, of
course, during these blasted Northern winters.
Besides the appalling toll of deaths and injuries, the
other discouraging element in the young family's situation
was the move across the river in August of '67. It
was necessary if Gideon planned to work steadily.
During the cold months, ice drifting in the river
made ferry service undependable at best."
Moving to Jersey City sharply limited their chances
to see Jephtha and Molly. But Gideon and
Margaret bore the new isolation without complaint.
Finding a cottage for rent adjoining the Miller
place helped. Daphnis Miller became not
only his friend but his mentor. He willingly showed
Gideon the tricks of the switchman's trade, and
arranged for the younger man to be assigned to his own
shift-dusk to dawn. Tonight, Miller would come along
as usual about six-thirty, and the two would set out on
their half-hour trudge to the yards.
He decided he mustn't tell Margaret about
listening to Bill Sylvis. Luckily he'd made
a second stop while he was out of the house. It would
explain his absence.
He didn't want his wife to think he was flirting
with a cause which might lose them what little
security they enjoyed. In truth he wasn't. After
the war he'd sworn he would never again fight for any
so-called lofty principle such as state's rights.
Mere survival was struggle enough. He worked a
twelve-hour shift for the magnificent sum of one
dollar and a half per day. Mr. Greeley's
Tribune estimated an average family needed
$10.57 per week to dismeet minimum expenses.
Only Margaret's sewing enabled the family to reach
that figure.
Nevertheless, Gideon and his wife repeatedly
refused the gifts of food and clothing offered
by Jephtha and Molly. Occasionally--and this was one of the
Occasions--he wondered if he'd been a lunatic
to tell his father he wanted no financial help. A
word to Jephtha, and he, Margaret and Eleanor could
enjoy a secure life. Eat decently.
Inhabit an adequately furnished home over in
Manhattan.
He sighed. Independence surely had its price.
Was ft fair to ask Margaret to continue to pay it?
Pride was fine, but it couldn't fill stomachs, or
refurbish worn-out wardrobes.-
Stop, he thought, irked with himself. He shoved a hand
through his long light-colored hair and blinked
his right eye to clear it of a speck. He'd made the
decision. He'd stick by it; build a future with
his own labor and his own wits-even though he
frequently felt the latter were still pitifully
inadequate.
He was doing something about that, however. Every night. Every
spare moment His goal wasn't unrealistic. Many
men were self-educated, including Sylvis. The
Philadelphian had told the saloon gathering that
his family had hired him out for farm work when he was
eleven. He'd taught himself to read because he could
afford no other teacher. Later in life he'd
struggled to master extremely complex material because
a grasp of it was essential for a union
organizer. Sylvis had mentioned names that meant
nothing to Gideon. Adam Smith. David
Ricardo. Karl Marx.
He rubbed the sleeves of his flannel shirt.
Lord, it was cold! His bladder felt full. But he
had no desire to tramp out to the privy in the howling
wind. The threatening sky continued to remind him of
Kolb.
During the last blizzard, Augustus Kolb had
gone to his switchman's job, had slipped on an
ice-covered rail, and been crushed between
shunting pars. Before midnight, a sawbones had
removed both legs at mid-thigh. He would never
work again. his
And all Kolb's pregnant wife and two small
children had received by way of compensation was a flowery
note of sympathy written by some high-living,
faceless Erie nabob.
"You can do nothing unless you organize."
"Gideon? Your food will be cold!"
"Coming."
I'll
He trimmed the parlor's one kerosene lamp
to conserve the fuel. As always, he kept his head
turned slightly to the left while using his hands. The
flame spurted once, throwing a quick highlight on
the black leather patch covering his left eye
socket. Then darkness claimed the room.
The bedroom was cold on the parlor side, warmer
near the kitchen. The iron stove radiated
welcome heat As he headed for the lighted
rectangle of the doorway between the rooms, another
remark made by Sylvis slipped into mind:
"Until you have a union, they'll take
advantage of you. There are only two classes in
the United States. The skinners and the
skinned."
The statement reminded him of his second cousin once
removed. He'd never met Louis Kent.
Jephtha detested him and, though related, never saw
him. But Gideon often read about Louis in the
papers. He was a major stockholder of Erie.
On a night like this, he certainly wouldn't be shivering
and shaking in his fine new mansion on Fifth
Avenue, or his palace up the Hudson.
Again Gideon scored himself for envy. He didn't
want wealth handed to him. But he did feel men such
as Louis should display some responsibility when an
employee was maimed for life.
Ridiculous to expect that, though. Louis was one of the
skinners. Even before he'd met Sylvis,
Gideon had begun to realize gentlemen such as
Mr. Louis Kent lived at the expense of others.
While Kolb's wife, heavy
with child, tended him and probably cried herself to sleep
because of the family's predicament, Louis Kent
occupied himself with parties, voyages to Europe, and
financial manipulations Gideon didn't begin
to understand.
He'd tried, certainly. He read every available
newspaper account of the current struggle for
control of the Erie. None made much sense. He was
still hard put to differentiate between "bulls" and
"bears," and utterly failed to comprehend what a
"pool" was, or a "combination," or a "corner"-
"Gideon Kent, what are you doing out there?"
"What? Oh-was He hadn't realized he'd stopped
four paces from the kitchen.
"Why are you standing in the dark? What are you thinking
about?"
"You can do nothing unless you organize." "Nothing
important," he said, submerging a pang of
guilt and hurrying to her.
The Family
HE STEPPED into the warm kitchen, lifted from his
pensive mood by the sight of his wife and daughter.
Five-year-old Eleanor stood fidgeting in a
washtub. Kneeling beside the tub, Margaret whipped
a piece of nappy toweling called a rubber around the
little girl's pink rump.
Eleanor Kent was one of *the delights of
Gideon's life. She was a happy, sturdy child with
her mother's dark hair and eyes. Now, though, she was
frowning:
"Papa, she's taking the skin off me!"
Gideon chuckled as he sat down at the
old table where a plate of stringy beef and boiled
potatoes awaited him. "She knows best,
Eleanor. That hair brush-was He pointed to the
bristly object lying beside a lump of homemade
soap. "comdoes a lot more than warm you up."
"I'm too hot now, Papa!"
"Stop that. All the doctors say children need a good
scratching after a bath. Makes the blood run
properly."
"I don't care," Eleanor declared, "the scratch
brush hurts like the devil!"
"Please don't use that word, Eleanor,"
Margaret said, delivering a light swat through the
rubber she was using to dry the child.
Margaret Marble Kent was Gideon's age.
Nearly twenty-five. She was a slender but
full-bosomed young
woman with pretty features marred only by a stubby
nose she despised. Gideon had met her in
Richmond at the start of the war. He loved her
deeply and had never regretted his decision to marry
her.
She was a strong-minded person and not timid about
letting others know her convictions. An embroidered
motto on the kitchen wall typified that
characteristic.
A NEAT, CHEERFUL HOME KEEPS SONS
FROM BECOMING FAST AND DAUGHTERS FROM
BECOMING FRIVOLOUS
The sight of Margaret jogged Gideon's memory
about the present he'd bought after leaving the meeting.
He rose, walked to the cupboard, pulled the
parcel down, and hid it behind his back.
"Eleanor, kindly stop wiggling like an eel!"
Margaret brushed a loose lock of hair off her
forehead. She laid the rubber aside and started
to drag a heavy nightgown over her daughter's
head. From within the folds, Eleanor answered in a
muffled voice:
"I will if Papa sings a song."
"Papa must eat his dinner before it turns
to icicles." She lifted the child from the tub. "The
weather's abysmal, Gideon. They should close the
yard when it storms-why on earth are you looking so
smug?"
He bounced on the soles of his cracked boots, the
small package concealed behind his back. "Got a
surprise for you."
"A surprise?" She jumped up, smoothing her
stained skirt. "Is that where you went after you
woke up? To buy something we can't afford?"
"Didn't cost me all that much," he fibbed.
"You'll dish to pay for it, though."
Eleanor scampered to him and tugged the leg of his
heavy corduroy trousers. "Papa, will you sing?"
He slipped a hand around her head, fondling her
hair.
"In a minute. First your mama and I must make a
little exchange."
He rattled the paper with his other hand. He leaned
forward and kissed Margaret, then revealed the parcel
and bellowed a kind of fanfare.
Margaret looked increasingly pained. "Whatever it
is, we definitely can't afford it 111 return
it."
"Impossible. I already got my kiss. You have
to take it."
He pressed the parcel into her red-knuckled hands and
picked up his daughter. She giggled while he
pulled out the chair and plumped her on his knee.
"Any favorites, Miss Eleanor?"
Arms around his neck, the little girl continued
to wriggle. was "Yellow Rose." his
"Fan-enough." He began to jog her up and down in
rhythm as he sang in a strong baritone.
"Where the Rio Grande is flowing, "And the starry
skies are bright-was
Eleanor joined in, her voice clear and sweet:
"She walks along the river "In the quiet
summer night."
Eleanor jumped down, planted her fists on her
hips and hopped from foot to foot-her version of
dancing. Gideon clapped and kept singing.
"She thinks if I remember "When we parted long
ago, "I promised to return, "And not to leave her
so!"
Booming the last words, he seized Eleanor's
waist and hugged her so hard she squealed.
"For heaven's sake don't encourage her!"
Margaret said. "Ever since three, she's been the
most incurable show-off I've ever seen."
"You told me children always show off at age three."
"It's supposed to stop."
Gideon had to admit his daughter was unusually
outgoing. He said wryly:
"Perhaps the Lord sent us an actress who'll
support us in style when we're old."
"An actress? I hope not! I want no child of
mine in a scandalous profession like-was
"Margaret, I'm teasing."
"What's an actress?" Eleanor wanted to know.
She had no difficulty with the word; she'd learned
to handle complex words and sentences long before most children
of a comparable age. "Is it something nice?"
"An actress is a disreputable person who
displays herself and-never you mind!"
"Go ahead and open the present," Gideon
prompted.
Still looking perturbed, Margaret unwrapped the
brown paper. She uttered a little gasp of delight
when she discovered a small, wrinkled lemon and a
large brown egg.
"Gideon, how much did you pay for these?"
"Doesn't matter."
Margaret gazed at the purchases as if trying
to decide whether to continue the discussion of cost or just
enjoy the unexpected gift. She did the latter,
bending down and tapping Eleanor's cheek.
"Stand aside and let me kiss him again, miss."
She put her head between her daughter's and
Gideon's and pressed her mouth to his. "You're a
foolish spendthrift. But I love you for it."
"Well, God-uh, heaven knows-was he corrected
as Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth and rolled
her eyes. "coma woman who works as hard as
you deserves something nice once in a while. The
Tribune says all the
fancy young ladies whose broughams dash up and down
Fifth Avenue beautify themselves with egg and lemon.
If it's proper for society girls, it's proper
for you, Mrs. Kent."
"I've read it truly does work wonders,"
Margaret said, carefully placing the egg and lemon
between Gideon's plate and a book lying on top of a
copy of Leslie's Illustrated Weekly. A
subscription to the popular periodical had been one
of Jephtha's and Molly's Christmas presents.
"Softens the skin," she added. "I could use that. The
cold weather makes mine rough as bark."
"Always feels fine to me," Gideon grinned. He
stuffed a frayed napkin into his collar and began
to eat. "I wanted you to have something for yourself."
"Even though we haven't the money."
"Let me worry about the money. Time in this life
is short, Margaret. I've been thinking a lot
about Augie Kolb-was
"Is that what kept you standing like a statue in the
bedroom?"
He nodded. "I wondered if Augie had ever bought
his wife a present. He should have. Now
he's crippled, and he'll never earn another
half-dime-was He flung his fork on the plate.
"It's damned unjust. Augie sweated eight
years for the Erie. But now that he can't work, Mr.
Louis Kent and the rest of the muckamucks have forgotten
him. Something should be done to remind them."
"You sound like one of those trade unionists."
He looked away hastily, fearful his face would
reveal his guilt.
"Thinking of Louis just about ruins my appetite.
Don't let it ruin the present."
"It couldn't! Oh, Gideon-was Her eyes misted
a little. "You are utterly foolish sometimes. But I
can't get angry with you." She touched the lemon.
"I'll try this to
night. You're supposed to scoop the pulp out, then
beat the egg white and let the lemon peel sit in
it. The oils mix. The lemony white whisks
away all the wrinkles."
Quietly: "I'm giving you those a lot faster than
you deserve. I've forced you to live like this."
She squeezed his hand. "You know I never quarrel with
anything you decide after we talk it over."
"Including the decision not to ask father for money?"
"Yes, including that. You make me very
happy, Gideon." She leaned closer, her breast
touching his arm and creating a familiar, comfortable warmth.
"Especially when you indulge that Virginia
gentleman's temperament and buy presents."
She kissed him again, her lips lingering. Eleanor
sighed and let her attention wander elsewhere.
Gideon forked a chunk of boiled potato toward his
mouth. "I know I didn't make you happy by taking
the yard job."
"I only fret when the weather's bad. You told
me most of the other men never show up on a night like
this. You could stay home."
"Shades of Richmond! "Don't ride off with
old Jeb, Gideon.""
She flushed. "I'm sorry."
Soberly, he said, "I didn't mean to tease so
hard. Truth is, I'd like to stay home. But I'd
have to say I was under the weather, and I've never been
much good at lying. Besides, we need the money."
Perched on a stool, Eleanor was rubbing her bare
toes together. "What about the book, Papa? I
want to hear some of the book."
"Oh, dear!" Margaret exclaimed. "I got so
excited over the present, I forgot the child's
feet-was
She rushed to the bedroom and returned with coarse
woolen stockings. Gideon listened to the whine of the
wind. The cottage creaked. A roof shingle tore
loose
and went rattling away. An arduous twelve hours
lay ahead.
But before he left, he still had the pleasure of the evening
ritual.
Margaret finished forcing the stockings on Eleanor.
The little girl looked eagerly at her father. She
didn't understand half the words during a reading, but they
fascinated her because they fascinated him.
"All right," Gideon smiled. "We'll have the
book in just a minute."
Margaret brought him a hot cup of coffee from the
claw-footed stove. Jephtha and Molly had
ordered the stove installed as a surprise present
when the couple moved to Jersey City.
While Gideon sipped, Eleanor raced to a
corner to pick up a wire carpet beater. She
pretended to capture imaginary insects in an
imaginary net. Margaret emptied the woodbox and
fed the kindling into the stove.
When he picked up the book ,he noticed
Leslie's cover engraving for the first time.
The engraving was a composite of three oval
portraits. One of the men pictured, squint-eyed
and narrow-lipped, was considerably older than the
others. A decorative ribbon beneath his picture
identified him as Drew.
The plump, sleepy fellow with the luxuriant
moustache was Fisk. The third, sporting a fan
shaped beard so large it concealed his cravat, was
Gould. The cover was captioned:
AT WAR WITH VANDERBILT- THE ERIE
TRIUMVIRS
Gideon had never seen likenesses of the men who were
part owners of the line for which he worked. He
studied them avidly. He was especially fascinated
by Gould. If the portrait was accurate, it
created a deceptive impression. The infamous
Mr. Gould looked about as dangerous as a
poverty-stricken clerk.
Margaret finished at the stove and sat down.
Eleanor swatted another invisible insect. She
fixed her luminous brown eyes on her mother, who
turned to a page marked with a slip of lace.
"Oh," Margaret said abruptly, "you mustn't
forget to tell Daphnis what we discovered about his
name."
Gideon nodded. "I won't."
She began to read aloud from the collection of
President Johnson's public speeches. The
book came from Jephtha's parsonage library.
was "The tendency of the legislation in this country is to
"build up monopolies-"" She glanced at
her husband. "Monopolies?"
The ritual reading had begun two years earlier,
prompted by Gideon's desire to familiarize
himself with America's history and the flow of
political and economic thought to the present day.
It was Margaret who'd first suggested that she read
aloud in the evening. She'd pointed out that Andrew
Johnson had learned the same way. In his
tailor shop in Tennessee, he'd paid men fifty
cents an hour to read to him while he cut cloth and
stitched seams.
She'd begun with the Declaration of Independence and the
Constitution. Her patience and good humor had eased
him through the first weeks in which many of the concepts made
only a dim kind of sense. Now he'd
progressed far enough so that he enjoyed the challenge of a
question, and the chance to show his mastery of an idea:
"Monopolies are groups-small
groups-controlling a type of business."
Margaret nodded encouragement.
"They usually agree privately to fix their
pricing."
"What do you call a man who does that?"
Gideon rubbed his forehead. God, there was so much
to know. He dredged up the answer.
dis8Monopolist?" .
"Yes." Her smile heartened him. "The
practice itself is monopolism."
"Ism," he repeated. He smiled. "As in
Vanderbilt-ism."
She laughed. "I don't think it's in the
dictionary, but it's apt." She returned to the
book. "Build up monopolies comhere we go.
"The tendency of legislation is to build up the
power of money. To concentrate it in the hands of the few.
The tendency is stor classes, and against the great
mass of the people." his
"Sure is true of the Erie," he observed. "The
directors run it for themselves, not the passengers.
Workers don't count for a hoot either. The directors
should remember what happened to old" King
George."
"But the law doesn't provide' for railroad
passengers to have any voice in running a
line. Or laboring men, for that matter."
"Maybe the law's wrong. Maybe the Erie
directors see to it. Maybe things should be
changed."
Margaret was staring at him in a curious way.
"What did I do?" he asked.
"Nothing. You just sound like one of those trade
unionists again."
He realized she was right. It disturbed him.
"Shoot, I was only thinking out loud."
He started at the sound of a fist hammering on the
back door. He opened the door to admit
Daphnis Miller and a blast of wintry air.
Eleanor let out a screech as the air hit her.
Miller lurched as Gideon slammed the door.
Gideon's neighbor was bundled in a patched
Union Army overcoat. A woolen cap covered
his ears and forehead. A scarf was tied around the lower
half of his face.
"You're early, Daphnis," Gideon said.
Closing the book, Margaret looked almost as
disappointed as her husband.
The scarf muffled Miller's voice. "Gonna be
a hard tramp to the yards. Sleet's been comin'
down like sixty for the last fifteen
minutes."
Miller flicked droplets of water from his gray
brows. He weaved to the range, extending hands
encased in several pairs of mittens. "Real bitch
of a night-oops. Beg your pardon, ladies."
Gideon started into the bedroom. He smelled the
beer with which his neighbor had fortified himself.
"Maybe they'll cancel most of the runs
Daphnis," Margaret said.
"Not unless she drifts too bad. Gid, you
better fetch an extra pair of mittens if you
got "em."
"I haven't," he called, returning with the ragged
Confederate greatcoat he'd brought home from Fort
Delaware. He put it on, donned his forage
cap, stretched a muffler over the top of his head, and
knotted it under his chin. Margaret raised on
tiptoe to kiss him.
"Don't take any needless chances."
He patted her arm. "I won't." He was concerned
about Miller, who had apparently continued to imbibe
after coming home from the Lager Palace. In
Miller's household, necessities were often
sacrificed to pay for alcohol. Gideon
religiously avoided drinking before going
to work. Beer or spirits slowed response time.
To survive in the yards, you had to be quick.
"Bolt the doors when I leave," he said
to Margaret.
"I thought I'd go over and help Flo with her
laundry."
"Mighty kind of you," Miller mumbled. "Those four
youngsters can sure dirty a bale of clothes."
"Take Eleanor with you," Gideon advised. "And
when you come back, lock up again. There are too many
men out of work wandering around."
Bristling a bit, Margaret said, "Gideon
Kent, I'm perfectly capable of looking after
myself!"
He grinned. "I know. I keep forgetting. See
you in the morning."
"Either that," Miller wheezed, "or a
representative of the Erie will bring condolences."
Margaret flared: "That's a poor joke,
Daphnis!"
He looked blearily contrite. Gideon hustled
him to the door, then bent down to hug Eleanor. As
he straightened, Margaret flung an arm around his
neck.
"Be very careful."
"Will be. Promise." To Eleanor: "Whose girl
are you?"
"Yours!" She blew him a kiss with both hands.
He tugged the door shut behind him, almost reeling in the
blast of wind that howled through the tiny back yard.
Miller waved his arms, losing his balance on the
steps. Gideon caught him and comheld him steady.
With his toe he tested the exposed edge ofthe*porch.
Slippery as glass.
The sleet was freezing wherever it hit. He didn't
blame Margaret for worrying. He was worried
too.
The Accident
THE WHITE WORLD of the storm dimmed lamps in
distant cottages and drove stinging sleet against
Gideon's exposed upper cheeks. The wind blew
with such force, he felt as if a huge man were trying
to push him back at every step. Before he and Miller
had completed half of the two-mile trek to the yards,
he was laboring for breath.
Ruts in the deserted streets were rapidly filling
with a treacherous accumulation of frozen snow. It
crunched under foot. Gideon knew it would cling to the
metal of the cars they'd be coupling. Cling and
freeze.
Miller's gait continued to be erratic. But he
kept up a nonstop conversation, another indication that
he'd drunk too much. Several times Gideon
yelled, "Can't hear you!" Miller simply kept
talking.
It seemed they'd been trudging for hours. Suddenly
Miller yanked his arms, then jammed his face
close to the scarf covering Gideon's left ear.
"You promised-more'n two weeks ago!"
Gideon shook his head. He had no idea what
Miller meant.
A switch engine whistled in the murk. They were
close to the yards. In spite of the weather, service
hadn't stopped.
The older man shook his arm doggedly. "Gid, you
promised! You said you were readin" that fairy story
book at supper-was
He understood what his friend wanted. Margaret had
urged him to mention it and he'd forgotten. "Myths,"
he bawled back. "A book by Bulfinch."
"Bull what?" Miller almost took a tumble.
Gideon grabbed Miller's overcoat and helped
him right himself. They leaned into the wind again.
"Finch. Finch!"
Months ago, Miller had begun badgering
him about his first name. The railroad man's parents
had been illiterate farmers in the Mohawk River
Valley. Few people with whom Miller came in
contact were conversant with anything but the daily papers.
He'd appealed to Gideon to help him discover the
origin and meaning of Daphnis.
So on Jephtha's last visit, Gideon had
asked him for any book which might contain the answer
Miller sought. Jephtha had located a volume
on his shelves and posted it to Jersey City. This was
no time to discuss it, though.
"Come on, Gid!" Miller sounded peevish.
"Tell me what the book says."
They turned a corner and started down a dark street
of warehouses next to the yards. At the end of the
street, the light box of a slow-moving locomotive
glared. The buildings shielded them from the worst of the
wind; conversation was easier.
"How much beer have you had today, Daphnis?"
"Plenty. I said, plenty. Knew it was gonna be
a pistol of a night. Now what'd you find put?"
A gust of wind blurred Gideon's answer.
"You won't tell me," Miller growled. "It's
a woman's name. My mama gave me a woman's
name. I always knew it."
"She did not. It's a perfectly proper man's
name. The original Daphnis was a Greek
shepherd."
Miller's grumbling told Gideon he couldn't
hear. Cold and irritated, Gideon roared:
"Sheep! Daphnis herded sheep!"
"That the honest to God truth?"
"Yes."
"My daddy kept some sheep-tell me the rest."
Gideon coughed. His throat was growing raw.
"Daphnis played music on some kind of pipe
or flute. He fooled around with a-was He could see
the word. Naiad. He wasn't sure how
to pronounce it. "coma girl who lived in the water
all the time."
"You say they were Greeks?" Miller cried. "Like
the Greeks comin' off the boats with the Slovaks and the
Dutchmen and the Jews? The kind of Greeks you see
at Castle Garden and Wards Island?"
"No. They weren't real people. It's just an old
story. A legend. Now keep quiet till we
get in where it's warm."
He doubted he'd ever be warm again.
They cleared the line of warehouses. To the left, between
switch tracks, haloed lamplight shone
from the shack belonging to the disyard superintendent. The
locomotive he'd glimpsed was chugging in the other
direction, already hidden behind eight white-roofed
freight cars.
They hurried toward the shack. Miller chuckled.
"Well, by God, I finally found out I wasn't
named for any silly female-Gid, I truly
thank you. First time we met on that prison train,
I knew you were all right."
Gideon laughed, practically pushing his friend toward
the shack. As a result he nearly lost his
balance. Every exposed surface in the yards was
covered with ice.
Miller blundered against the door, yanked it open, and
careened inside. Gideon followed. The corner
stove created a welcome land of heat.
Water dripped from the coats of both men. Miller
slumped on a bench and appeared to study his mittens.
"Named-for a damn Greek sheep herder. D'you
fancy that?"
The night superintendent, a short balding man named
Cuthbertson, sat at a desk in front of a
board. The board displayed the numbers and departure
tunes of a dozen trains. Chalk lines had been
run through all but two.
Cuthbertson jerked a foul-smelling black cigar
out of his mouth. "Hallo, Gid. Who's your
mush-mouthed friend?"
Miller's watering eyes blinked above the scarf.
"Cuthie, kiss my sheep."
Cuthbertson looked dour. "You been puttin' in
too much saloon time, Daphnis. Again."
"He's just tired," Gideon lied. The wind
rattled grimy windows. The icy crust of a
four-inch snow build-up glittered on the outer
sills.
Gideon sat on the bench and dragged the muffler
away from his mouth. His lips and chin felt numb. So
did his fingers and feet. He peeled off his soggy
mittens and hung them on the stove's open door.
"What's the situation, Cuthie?"
The superintendent pointed to the board. "All the
passenger runs are canceled. We got two
freights to make up, starting with the eight-thirty for
Albany." Those were probably the uncoupled cars
Gideon had seen as he approached.
"Maybe I could work with someone else," he
suggested. "Daphnis could rest and handle the second
train."
"I ain't got anyone else!"
Cuthbertson snapped. Despite his perpetually
brusque manner, he wasn't a bad sort. Just
overworked, and hampered by inferior equipment. "We
been hit by another of those mysterious plagues.
Happens every time it snows."
"You mean nobody else reported?"
"Nobody."
Gideon's frown deepened. Four switch crews
of two men each usually worked the shift.
"I can't wait to hear all the touching tales,"
Cuthbert-son snorted. "Chillblains. Flux.
A sudden call to visit a sick disfriend. I know who
that is. The barkeep at the Diamond N. Oh,
we'll have a grand session of lying tomorrow!"
Melted snow trickled off Gideon's boots and
formed little pools around his toes. The superintendent
jerked his head at Miller and raised his eyebrows.
Miller didn't notice. He was still contemplating
his mittens and mumbling.
"Sure, we'll get it done," Gideon said in
reply to Cuthbertson's silent question. His eye
drifted to the open stove. In the flames he saw
Augustus Kolb. The man had been thirty-one
at the time of the accident.
Cuthbertson lit a second cigar from the
stub of the first. "You don't exactly seem the soul
of cheer tonight."
"Oh-was Gideon untied his scarf, took off his
forage cap, then his mittens. He used his fingers like
the teeth of a comb, raking snow out of the hair around his
ears. Cuthbertson was waiting for an answer. "For
some reason I've been thinking a lot about Augie
Kolb today."
Cuthbertson nearly took his head off. "Why?"
Irked by the reaction, Gideon retorted, "I just
have." He noticed the superintendent's face.
"Cuthie, what's wrong? Something is. Tell
me."
Cuthbertson exhaled a cloud of smoke. "They
found Gerda early this morning."
"Gerda Kolb?" A nod. "Where?"
Miller's chin had dropped onto the lap of his
overcoat. He snored softly.
After more prodding from Gideon, Cuthbertson said:
"One of the youngsters found her in the shed behind their
cottage. She used strips from a blanket to hang
herself."

"My God. She was expecting!"
"Don't you let on I told you! I
got orders from the headquarters in Manhattan.
Ain't to be no reports of accidents in the
papers. The bosses are gettin' whipped plenty
hard enough over this stock war. I hear Vanderbilt's
after a majority of the shares, and Gould wants all
the favorable publicity his side can get. With him and
his chums playin' their games, it don't help to have
engines derailed and switchmen's wives doing themselves
Cuthbertson stopped, peering at the end of his cigar.
He pressed his chest as if his digestion were upset.
"Why would Gerda Kolb kill herself?" Gideon
asked. "She had Augie to care for. Two boys
to support. A child on the way."
A weary shrug. "I "spose that's the very reason.
Too many mouths and no money. You know the line
didn't give Augie one cent after the accident."
"What'll happen to the boys?"
"I guess they'll take to the streets. Steal.
It's that or starve."
"Jesus. You'd think someone high up would have the
decency to pay them something."
"Why, no," Cuthbertson said. "High up, they
got more important matters to think about. Meaning no
disrespect to any relative of yours," the
superintendent added sarcastically.
Gideon waved. "I don't know a thing about Louis
Kent except what my father and the newspapers tell
me. I gather Louis is the kind who wouldn't spend
a dime to put flowers on his mother's grave-damn
it, Cuthie, we
ought to force the line to do something for men who die or get
hurt!"
"Go right ahead. Call on your cousin! You might
start lookin" for another job at the same time."
"Job or no job, someone's got to stand up for people like
Augie's widow and kids."
"Not me. I like my three squares and a roof over
my head." The superintendent rose. "You and
Daphnis better start making up the eight-thirty.
Provided you can get him on his feet."
"Daphnis-was
Gideon prodded the older man. Miller snorted.
He shifted sideways on the bench, slow to rouse.
Cuthbertson lifted the angled lid of a storage
box. He pulled out a pair of yard-long clubs
of hickory wood.
"You boys want these? The links and pins may be
froze pretty bad."
Miller was awake. "Listen, Cuthie. As long
"as I've been with the Erie, I've never
used the staff of ignorance. I don't propose
to start now."
"How about you, Gid?"
Gideon shook his head, settling his cap and retying
the scarf. The brakeman's clubs were helpful in
coupling cars. But experienced men considered using one
to be an indication of inferior skill and a lack of
confidence. Cuthbertson tossed the clubs back
into the box and slammed the lid. Out in the storm, a
whistle blew twice. . "The lads are waitin"
on you," Cuthbertson said.
Gideon brought two lanterns from the corner. He
stuck a twist of straw into the stove and used it
to fire the wicks. He handed one lantern
to Miller, who almost dropped it before he worked the
bail over his arm.
Bundling up, Gideon was still upset by the news of
Gerda Kolb's hanging herself, killing her unborn
child in the process. It wouldn't have happened if the
line
compensated men for injuries and provided postmortem
benefits for widows. He thought of Jeb Stuart.
Stay together. Press right on toward the
objective-r-together.
He saw the burned shawl of Bill
Sylvis.
Organize.
Like Cuthbertson, he didn't really want to lead
the way into what would inevitably become a storm of
conflict and controversy.
Still, he couldn't escape one truth. Until someone
led, the problem would never be solved.
Miller lumbered to the door and jerked it open. The
storm tearing through the yards drove the imaginary one out
of Gideon's mind.
IV
They tramped toward the switch locomotive, the
glowing lanterns hanging from their arms. As they
negotiated the ice-covered ties on the track beside
the eight boxcars, Gideon shouted that he'd take
the first; the one to be connected to the switcher's tender.
The wind garbled Miller's reply. He slipped
again; almost fell. Gideon realized wearily that he
might have to couple the entire train by himself. With the
link-and-pin system, switchmen usually handled
alternate cars.
Gideon wigwagged his lantern at the engineer leaning
from the cab. The sleet slanted through the backwash of the
headlight like tiny silver arrows. was "Bout time, you
damn lazy clods!" the engineer shouted.
"Let's get her together!"
"Blasted thing-was Miller was struggling with the lid of the
link box between the first boxcar and the adjacent track.
"comshe's stuck tight."
Gideon beat on the lid with his fist. Ice
cracked. Pieces rattled on the frozen cinders
of the roadbed. He
wrenched the lid. On the third try he got the link
box open.
He checked the iron drawbars on the tender and the
boxcar. To his relief he saw the bars were on the
same level. He reached into the box for a link-a
hoop of iron thirteen inches across-and two iron
spikes.
There was about a yard of working space between the cars. The
minute he forced the link into the horizontal slot
of the tender's drawbar, he knew this would be no
simple job. Ice clogged the slot. The link
wouldn't seat properly.
He set his lantern down and began chipping at the
ice with one of the pins. Then he used both pins
to hammer the link home.
He positioned a pin over the opening in the drawbar.
More ice kept it from falling. He pounded with the other
pin. Finally the first pin dropped, securing
the link to the bar.
Gideon stepped from between the cars and waved the
lantern. "Back 'er up!"
The engineer retreated into the cab. Gideon averted
his face from the wind as the drivers reversed.
Slippage on the rails produced a sound like a
scream.
The fireman clambered down, swearing loud enough to be
heard above the storm. He flung four buckets of
cinders and sand on the rails. Abruptly, the
wheels found traction. The tender rolled backward.
Horizontal wooden beams that served as car
bumpers crunched under the impact. Gideon was
lucky; the force of the collision drove the link into the
boxcar's drawbar. The pin dropped without
difficulty.
"I'll take the next one," Miller called. His
lantern bobbed as he fished in the link box. The
flickering light revealed a gooseneck in his
glove. A gooseneck meant the drawbar of the
second freight car was not at the same height as that
on the first. It was a perennial problem
with rolling stock; there were no uniform manufacturing
standards.
Gideon followed his friend and waited
tensely while Miller wedged the gooseneck into the
bar of the first car. Miller stepped back to signal the
switch engine. He slipped. The engineer
interpreted the sudden jerk of his lantern as a
signal. Gideon barely had time to drag the
floundering man to safety before the cars crashed together.
"Too damn close, Daphnis. Let me do
it-was
He pried the pin out of Miller's mittened hand. The
older man snatched it back.
"Listen, Gid. You been treating me like a baby
all night. I knew how to do this job 'fore you were a
pup!"
Reluctantly Gideon let Miller has his
way. It took the older man five minutes to seat
the pin in the icy slot. Above the moan of the wind he
heard the engineer hectoring them for taking so long.
"Keep your britches on!" Gideon shouted.
"We're going as fast as we can!"
His right hand was growing numb again. The wind had
intensified, hurling the mingled snow and freezing rain
almost horizontally. He managed to couple the third
car fairly fast; the drawbars were parallel.
Miller ran past with the link and pins for the next one.
Again Gideon followed him, fretting.
Miller stepped into the four-foot space between the
cars. He had trouble with the link:
"Lord! The slot's solid ice-was
"I've got an extra pin. Let me in.
I'll work on it."
He stepped to the edge of the boxcar. His boot
skidded. He lost his grip on the pin. Without
thinking, he bent to retrieve it as Miller again
attacked the slot.
Doubled over, Gideon realized his error. The
lantern on his arm had dipped.
The drivers squealed. Sparks shot from the cindered
rails. He heard a chuffing, loud as doom.
Standing up, he inadvertently smashed the lens of his
lantern on the corner of the car. He reached for
Miller's bent back:
"Daphnis, get out of there!"
The cry went unheard. But Miller felt
Gideon touch him. He swung around, his eyes
angry. The train was shunting backward.
Miller saw the end of the forward car moving. He
tried to jump to safety. The toe of his boot
caught on a tie. Gideon had hold of
Miller's overcoat. Trying to regain his balance,
Miller jerked too hard and lurched the other
way.
The bumper beam of the forward car closed the gap and
thudded against the one behind. Daphnis Miller was pinned
at the waist between them.
Time seemed to stop. Gideon heard bones crack.
Miller's lantern went out.
The older man's upper body was twisted toward
Gideon and projecting from between the cars. Not twelve
inches from Gideon's eyes, Miller's face
contorted. His hands scratched Gideon's sleeve
as he hung there and screamed.
The scream faded. Miller's eyes bulged. He
slumped forward. His head slammed Gideon's chest
"Daphnis!"
Gideon seized his friend's head, tore off the
scarf, and slapped his cheeks in a wild, irrational
effort to strike life into the body bent at the waist
like a corn-husk doll. Terrified, Gideon
went floundering toward the locomotive.
"Go ahead! Ahead, damn it! Miller's
caught!"
He heard the consternation in the cab. He couldn't
tell whether it was the engineer or the fireman who
shouted:
"You signaled! I saw the lantern-was
"Just go ahead so we can get him free!" Snow
mingled with tears in his good eye. "Just go ahead!"
VI
When the cars separated, Daphnis Miller was
dying.
Gideon caught him as he fell and dragged him to a
spot between the tracks. He was nauseated by the wet
feel of Miller's overcoat. Not the watery
wetness of snow; something sticky, welling from hidden
ruptures in Miller's body.
The engineer and fireman bent over the switchman,
stricken speechless. Snow whitened Miller's
coat. It turned dark as blood soaked it.
Gideon ran like a man pursued.
still didn't think.
I should have put the lantern aside; 1 saw
Daphnis make the same mistake.
I SHOULD HAVE DONE THE WHOLE TRAIN
MYSELF!
"Cuthbertson!" He almost fell into the shack.
"Cuthbertson, hurry up! Dap'hnis has been
killed."
"Oh Lord, almighty-was White-faced, the
superintendent ran for the door without stopping for a
coat.
VII
Daphnis Miller resembled a fallen snowman
by the time Gideon and the superintendent reached him. The
fireman had located a lantern, but Gideon
wished he hadn't. The diffused rays illuminated
Miller's contorted face. Life had gone out of
him at a moment of extreme pain. His mouth was
open. Unmelted snow lay on his tongue. Sleet
spattered his distended eyes.
"My fault," Gideon said, struggling out of his
gray
overcoat and kneeling beside the body. He flung off
his scarf and cap. He was unable to hold back his
tears.
He'd seen men perish in wheatfields and forests.
He'd seen them sabered, shot, blown apart
by artillery fire. Terrible as that was, he'd never
been shaken as profoundly as he was now. His hand
stretched out to close Miller's hideous eyes, and
he wept his rage and shame:
"Oh, Daphnis, goddamn it, this is my
fault."
"Quit it, Gid," Cuthbertson said. "He was
tipsy when you come to work. Tipsy and half
asleep."
"But it was my lantern-oh, hell, it's too
late."
Full of self-loathing, he covered Miller's
body with the Confederate overcoat. He cried into the
palms of his mittens.
"Listen, Gid," Cuthbertson said gently. "I
take a big share of the blame. I should have ordered
him to stay inside the shack till he sobered up."
"His mind wasn't on it." Gideon talked
to himself, and the storm. "He had a lot to drink today, but
he was happy. He finally found out what his first name
meant." The tears dried up but the pain consumed him.
"Jesus. Jesus!"
Even the engineer seemed moved: "Kent, don't
take on so. Accidents happen."
"Happen all the time on this rotten line,"
Cuthbertson agreed.
Gideon's head jerked up. The leather patch was
white. His good eye glared.
"I know. I know what happens afterward, too.
Nothing."
The fireman didn't understand. Gideon's finger
stabbed toward the body.
"Miller's my neighbor. He has a family,
just like Augie Kolb. A wife. Four
youngsters-was
Cuthbertson batted snow from his eyes. "Who's
going to tell them?"
620The Warriors
"I'll tell them. I'll tell them I killed
him."
"Gid, you didn't!" Cuthbertson protested.
"They're not the only ones I'm going to tell. I
won't see his children starve to death or his wife go to her
grave like Gerda Kolb."
Cuthbertson tried to shush him.
"Cuthie, if you'll take him back to the shack,
I'll couple the rest of this goddamn train."
"Sure, Gid."
Snow flecked Gideon's light hair. He
twisted his scarf in his hands, the wind-raw skin under his
right eye wet again. He thought of Louis Kent. His
face grew ugly.
He bent his head and whispered a promise to himself: .
"Once I tell them, they won't forget, either. I
swear before God they won't."
Call to War
"CAN'T YOU SLEEP, DARLING?"
"No," Gideon said.
She shifted her head close to his and
tucked her forehead against his chin. Her hair smelled
of the harsh homemade soap.
The bed creaked as she changed position and brought her
right leg to rest on his thigh. The warmth of her body
was comforting. But it couldn't banish the images of
Daphnis Miller's corpse, or Flo
Miller's worn face changing from disbelief
to hysterical sorrow when he stood at the door of the
neighboring cottage in the blustery dawn following
the accident.
All the heat of the kitchen stove had dissipated. A
chilly dampness clung to the rooms; warmer
temperatures had arrived twenty-four hours after the
comstorm hurled by and swept out to sea.
Gideon slid his right arm around Margaret while he
folded his left under his head. The noise roused
Eleanor in the truckle bed. Margaret tensed.
When the child settled down, she said, "You haven't had
a decent rest in three days."
Nor had he reported for work at the yards.
"Is it Daphnis?"
He worked his head around and kissed her, but it was done
in an absent way. "Don't fret about me.
I'll be fine."
"Fine! Gideon Kent, we've been
married long

622The Warriors
enough for me to know when you're fibbing. Tell me what
you're thinking."
Silence.
Rain began to patter the roof. In moments it built
to a downpour. A familiar dripping started in the
parlor.
"I'd better set the pail out."
She tugged him back. "Not until you say what's
on your mind."
"I don't want to upset you, Margaret."
"Do you think I can sleep, or keep my mind on
the house, or help Flo get ready to go upstate
for the funeral when you're in such a state? Refusing
to eat? Sitting in the parlor till all hours with the
lamp out? Barking at Eleanor?" A forgiving
caress of his face. "Say it."
There was a peculiar blend of anxiety and relief
in finally doing so:
"I have to go after them."
"The owners?"
"Yes. I'm going to get money for Flo, and for
Augie Kolb."
She pondered that. Said gently, "You know what the
outcome will be."
"They'll say no?"
"You won't get close enough for that. No one in a
position of authority will even talk to you."
"They might."
"If they did, the answer would still be no."
"Cuthbertson said the owners are dead afraid of
any bad publicity right now."
"They'll accept bad publicity rather than meet
demands that could set a precedent."
"Goddamn it, Margaret, I know the chances are
slim. But I've got to try."
"I didn't mean to anger you. I just want you to be
realistic."
"I know. I'm sorry." He hugged her. The
drip in the parlor quickened. Eleanor turned again,
muttering.
"You'll lose your job, won't you." It wasn't
a question.
"Yes. That's why I've been reluctant to say
anything."
"Gideon, you know I'm willing to stand by you when I
think you're right."
"Do you this time?"
"Your idea may be right. But it's hopeless."
He tried to sound more confident that he was. "Maybe
not."
"Your father would be glad to give you enough money to keep
Mr. Kolb and Flo secure for the rest of their
lives."
"It wouldn't be the same. It'd be charity, not something
deserved. The Erie owes those two families!"
"You're doing this because you feel guilty about
Daphnis-was
"In part. I think I wanted to do it for Augie
before Daphnis got killed. I kept trying to deny
it to myself. The accident tipped the scale, that's
all."
"You realize it's almost like going to war again? You said you
never would."
He nodded. "A man changes his mind, Margaret
Circumstances change his mind." The exhausted
face of Bill Sylvis drifted past his inner
eye. "Daphnis was kind to us. When he died, he
was almost as close to me as I am to you. Have you ever
been close to someone who died violently?"
"No."
"Well, ifs ugly. Ugly and dirty and sad beyond
belief. Last month Cuthie was reading one
of those Beade novels. Some tale about Army
scouts in the West I looked at a column or
two. Three men were killed in as many paragraphs.
The author knocked them down like ninepins. There was
no hint of pain. Nothing about the foulness when a dying
man's functions fail. The writer made it clean
and-and trivial. The deaths shocked no
one. Left no one hurt. Undoubtedly the
author's never seen men die either. A real human
being can't be forgotten so easily."
"It's still a lost cause, Gideon."
A short, sad laugh. "I expect. But I fought
for one of those before and survived. The thing is-I have no
choice."
"Well," Margaret murmured, "it's decided.
We can go to sleep."
"You're not against it?"
"I can't say I like it. But I suspected it was
coming."
He rumpled her hair; tried to tease:
"Aren't you going to caution me not to canter off with
Beauty Stuart because I'll get hurt?"
"No, Gideon. I've learned something about you and
your family. The Kents have a tendency to go wherever
they must, and hang the consequences. Just the
other night, when" everyone else stayed home during
the storm, your conscience sent you to work with Daphnis.
Even when I think about what might happen this time,
I can't help feeling less-than proud of you-was
, She kissed his cheek. "Where will you start? The
superintendent of the yards? The general manager?"
"They only take orders. I'll start with the people who
can make a decision. I don't know any of them.
But I have a connection with one."
Astonishment: "You don't mean Louis?"
"Why not? They elected him a director last
week. It was in all the papers."
"He'll give you no special treatment. He
despises your father. And you've never even seen him."
"Even so, I'm closer to him than to any of the
others. I know where .louis lives. Father knows what
he looks like. I must fix that damn pail-was
He disentangled himself, climbed out of bed, barked his
shin on a post of the truckle bed and almost woke
Eleanor. The rain pelted harder as he groped his
way into the kitchen.
She's right, he thought as he lugged the pail to the
parlor and placed it beneath the leak. She's too loving
to insist you abandon the idea, but she knows you're a
damn fool. She knows it as well as you
do.
It had simply come down to a choice between doing nothing
or making an effort. He had no great hope of
success. But without making an effort, he'd never
sleep well again.
ii
His tension and the river's choppiness combined to unsettle
his stomach when he rode the ferry to the foot of
Courtland Street next morning. Margaret had
emptied her jar of kitchen money to provide him with a
dollar and a half for boat fare and trips on the
horsecar lines. He walked to the parsonage on
Orange Street.
The study in the house next to St. Mark's
Methodist Episcopal Church reeked of cigar
smoke. But there was no cigar in evidence when
Jephtha Kent opened the door, just the haze of his
secret vice.
"Gideon!"
"Hello, father."
"I thought I heard the bell."
"Molly let me in."
Gideon entered the cozy, book-lined room.
Outside the-window, the narrow walkway between the
parsonage and the church proper looked dark
as twilight.
"I hardly expected to see you in town during the
week," Jephtha said.
He looks old, Gideon thought with a touch of
astonishment. In not much more than a year, Jephtha
would be fifty; his long, straight black hair had
a generous streaking of white. Age had softened his
gaunt features.
But many of his flock said he still resembled a red
Indian.
"There's nothing wrong with Margaret or the baby?"
"No, they're fine." Gideon sank into a chair
in front of the littered desk. He coughed.
A flush crept into Jephtha's gaunt cheeks.
"Stuffy in here," he muttered as he raised the
window. The sudden rush of air set the smoke moving
and only made it doubly noticeable.
Self-consciously Jephtha sat down. His desk
was strewn with sheets of notes for a sermon. He
stacked some of them on top of an open Bible and
picked up a large, stiff rectangle of paper that
Gideon hadn't noticed before.
"Look what the morning post brought. A
photograph of the new store. It's their fourth."
Absently Gideon took the
photograph, which showed an unfamiliar man and
woman posed in front of a frame building with
plate-glass windows and a large signboard:
H. and M. K. BOYLE OF CHEYENNE
An unconscious jealousy crept over him as he
stared at the brown-tinted image. He'd never met
Amanda Kent's clerk, Michael Boyle, to whom
his father had willed Jeremiah's portion of the
California wealth. He knew Jephtha loved and
respected the Irishman. Yet he'd always felt
it somewhat unjust that family money should be given
to Boyle, no matter how strong Jephtha's
feelings.
Still, he and his father didn't agree on everything.
Since he was entitled to no voice in the decision,
he'd never mentioned his reservations.
"I tell you, Gideon, that wife of Michael's
must be a clever women. They've already trebled the
money I
advanced them, paid the principal back with interest, and
wherever they open an establishment along the
railroad, they can't keep up with the volume of
business. There's a letter somewhere-was He rummaged
among the notes. "They'll be coming east in the spring
to buy merchandise."
Suddenly Jephtha's dark hands ceased shuffling the
papers. He noticed the look of strain on his
son's face.
"I'm sorry," he said. "There is something wrong,
and I'm rattling."
Gideon drew a deep breath. "I need some
information about Louis."
"Louis! What on earth for?"
Gideon explained. Jephtha leaned back in his
chair with his fingertips touching beneath his chin. When
Gideon finished, Jephtha asked immediately:
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"Hell, yes!"
He fell back in the chair, embarrassed by the
outburst. "Margaret and I have already discussed the
certainty that I'll lose my job. Let's not
waste time on that. I'd like to know what cousin Louis
looks like."
"Easy enough," Jephtha said, and described him in
a few sentences. Gideon felt uncomfortable.
Jephtha's face had grown expressionless, showing
neither approval nor disapproval. "Where do you
plan to see him, Gideon?"
"I intend to try his home first."
"I'll ask you again-do you know what you're
doing?"
"If you mean to say I'm a fool for trying to wring
money out of the Erie for those two families, I know
it. I must try anyway."
"Even though you're asking for the impossible?
Generosity from men who have no concern for the welfare of
others? That hypocrite Drew. Fisk-an out and out
libertine. And Gould-possibly the worst of the
lot.
caret
Pious and proper in his personal life-a
positive maniac on the subject of keeping it
above reproach. I sometimes wonder if his wife
deceives herself or is simply ignorant.
Propriety at home and piracy everywhere else,
that's Gould's style. I know a few pale
imitators in my own congregation," he added with a
sad chuckle. "As for Louis-what can I tell you
that you haven't already heard? Before Amanda died, she
feared she'd set him a bad example. She was a
wonderful woman, but in that respect she was right.
She failed with Louis. He's venal,
comself-centered-and the last person on God's earth
who deserves to possess the family heirlooms.
He has as much human kindness as his
newfound partners in fortune, which is to say he has
exactly none. He doesn't even share Gould's
virtue of maintaining a decent home."
"Do you know where he spends his time when he's away from
Fifth Avenue?"
"I've no idea. I would imagine he belongs to a
club or two. The Erie headquarters downtown would
be another possibility. Since this amoral stock
war began, the papers say the directors gather
mere every day or so."
Gideon sighed. "I'd best begin with the Fifth
Avenue address. From there I'll trust to luck."
"You'll need plenty," Jephtha said in a sober
way. "Despite Mr. Gould's concern for
editorial opinion, how the public feels generally
doesn't affect those men. Of course if Gould's
wife saw a story saying he was chasing another
female, you'd see him deny it oftener than Simon
Peter denied the Lord. Still-was
A glint of amusement lit Jephtha's dark
eyes. "We might be able to singe some trousers in that
crowd."
"We?" Gideon shook his head. "You aren't going
to be dragged into this in any way."
"Perhaps I'll choose to be! I'm in
sympathy with what you're attempting, Gideon. I
suspect it's futile but that doesn't make it
unworthy. So consider it a family
endeavor. I might be able to help you from my
pulpit. It's been a long time since I've
given my congregation a good teeth-rattling sermon
on some public issue. Everyone's agog over the
affairs of the Erie. Postmortem benefits for
Erie laborers might be an ideal subject- and
who knows? Gould might be sensitive just now."
"I'll keep that in mind," Gideon promised.
"Meantime, I'd best be going-was
Jephtha leaned forward. "Are you sure Margaret's
in full agreement with this course?"
"Yes. She's not enthusiastic. But she'll go
along."
"Even if by some miracle you should win a small
concession, you realize it wouldn't be the end. Rather, it
would be just the beginning."
"What do you mean?"
"You'd be tilde a marked man. Reprisals
might be attempted. Certainly no business of
substance on the East Coast would give you even a
menial position-if that. Any future you hoped
to find in commerce would be wiped out.
Consciously or otherwise, you're, behaving like some
of the most hated men in America."
"You mean the trade union people?"
"I do."
Gideon bristled. "Everyone keeps throwing that in
my face. I'm no damned unionist!"
"You are when you concern yourself with death benefits for
laborers." Jephtha held up his hand. "I'm not
objecting. In fact, I'm proud of you. We
haven't had a good cause in the Kent family for quite
a while. Perhaps it's time we did."
He circled the desk and gave his son's shoulder
an
affectionate squeeze. "Before you launch off, come
to the kitchen. There's hot tea on the stove, and
Molly's baking bread. It should be ready soon.
You look
as if you could stand a bit of nourishment."
Gideon reached across with his right hand and
clasped his father's fingers. "I've already gotten a
good portion. Thank you."
"Just remember my offer of a sermon." Jephtha
opened the study door. "A trade unionist.
Imagine that Your poor mother's probably whirling in
her grave."
"Father, I do not see myself in that role at all."
Jephtha turned, his eyes intense. "I believe
you. But you see, I don't count. Anyone who
threatens the status quo, no matter how humane and
sensible the reason, is usually accused of being a
radical of the most extreme sort. Perhaps it
doesn't happen without cause. Perhaps any time you do
threaten the status quo, you are a radical. You're
in good company, however. When your great-great-grandfather
Kent fired his musket at Concord Bridge, he
upset the status quo with a vengeance. But he was right.
So are you. In the end, nothing else matters."
He clapped Gideon's shoulder arid preceded him
out of the study, walking with an exuberance Gideon
wished he could match.

For five cents, a car on the Sixth Avenue
Railroad took him nearly to the end of the line.
Shortly past noon he approached the portico
of the handsome house Louis Kent had built at upper
Fifth Avenue and Fifty-fifth Street.
The city was spreading north; all the way to Central
Park. Property owners around Madison Square,
a highly fashionable address just a decade ago,
bemoaned the growing commercialization of the area.
Louis had done more than bemoan. backslash
A stiff-backed manservant informed Gideon that
Mr. Louis Kent was out for the remainder of the day. The
brief and one-sided conversation ended when the great
carved door slammed without Gideon having an
opportunity to state his name or his business.
He clacked the knocker again. The servant appeared
at one of the window lights beside the door. He motioned
Gideon away, then disappeared. He didn't
respond to the third knock.
Gideon went down the drive, out the gate and south
along the rain-drenched Avenue. A farmer from the open
country above Fifty-ninth Street was driving a
dozen squealing hogs in the center of the street. He
gave Gideon's gray overcoat a suspicious
examination. Head bowed, Gideon paid no attention.
Where should he go next? The only possibility was the
one his father had suggested-the Erie headquarters
located on the Lower West Side near the line's
Pier 15 ticket office. He turned west
to catch the Sixth Avenue horsecar again.
By early afternoon he was loitering in a dim
cul-de-sac opposite a handsome, cupolated
building housing the railroad's general offices.
Trash bins at the mouth of the cul-de-sac
shielded him from direct observation. A second
floor overhang provided protection from the weather.
But he still felt wretched in his soggy coat.
A half block west, the Chiane Street pier
jutted into the river. A great steam liner belching
smoke from its funnels went churning toward the
ocean, the British ensign hanging limp in the
rain. Gideon bent his leg and braced the toe of his
right boot against the brick wall. He opened the
copy of the Union he'd purchased. At the end of
fifteen minutes he decided he might have gambled
correctly. Expensive carriages began to pull
up in front of the headquarters, depositing
well-dressed gentlemen who hurried inside.
Employees came and went as well. The traffic
was -?"8observed by a couple of wide-shouldered men
lounging on the porch. They had the look of toughs, but
they tipped their derbies deferentially to the new
arrivals.
A handsome victoria approached along Duane
Street. Its calash top was folded down to shield
its passenger from the rain. A young man of about thirty
climbed out. Gideon only had a glimpse of
him, but the man's age and swarthy skin convinced him it
was Louis Kent. No one else fitting
Jephtha's description had shown up.
That man is my relative, he thought as he stared
at the gilt-lettered doors through which Louis had
vanished. A curt laugh helped him overcome a
curious sense of awe. Gradually, Louis began
to assume more human proportions.
Despite his fine clothing, he'd looked
perfectly ordinary. The same applied to the rest
of the visitors. At long range, their wealth and
power lent them an- Olympian, that was the word he
wanted-an Olympian aura. But they were men
exactly like he was. They could feel pain and fear.
If he remembered that, he'd have a useful weapon.
Soon the last of the gentlemen went inside.
Gideon had counted elevenstin all.
To pass the time, he began to leaf through the paper. He
found the usual collection of lurid material-a
staple of the Union-including an account of a train
robbery in the Nebraska Territory:
UNION PACIFIC LOOTED!
Armed Bandits Conduct Daring Raid
Near North Platte.
The dispatch was a week old. It described the theft
of a payroll from a supply train by an
unidentified white man and his Indian
confederate. The robbers had stopped the train by piling
three frozen buffalo carcasses on the track.
They'd gotten away safely and Dr. Thomas
Durant had announced a substantial reward for
his
their capture.
On the next page he came across the editorial
drawing.
It made him smile. A huge loathsome octopus
with a wizened human face imprisoned six
anguished maidens in its tentacles. The octopus
was captioned Vanderbilt while each of the suffering
females had the word Competition lettered on the hem of
her gown.
Eventually the rain slacked off. He finished the
paper as the street began to darken. His empty
stomach ached. He had no timepiece, but he
guessed the conclave had already lasted about three
hours.
One of the toughs lit gas lamps beside the office
entrance. The other applied a match to kindling in a
metal drum at the curb. One by one the carriages
returned, including the victoria.
From the direction of the river a poorly dressed
boot boy appeared, carrying his homemade
shoe stand. He scrutinized the waiting vehicles,
the fine horses, and the well-dressed drivers
congregated around the blazing barrel. The boy set
up shop by squatting on his box. One of the guards
made a half-hearted attempt to shoo him away,
but he paid no attention. The guards returned
to scrutiny of the street and their diamond rings.
In another few minutes the doors opened. The
gentlemen who'd been meeting started to emerge. One
thwacked his silk hat on his head angrily.
Several were arguing. The fire helped Gideon
observe faces. Earlier, he'd seen almost nothing
but the backs of heads.
If he recalled the Leslie's cover
correctly, the round-faced chap was Jim Fisk.
He looked sleepy and phlegmatic. Gideon
searched for Gould but couldn't find him in the crowd.
The doors opened again. Louis emerged, followed
by an old fellow with unkempt gray hair and a
choleric countenance. The gray-haired man
negotiated the steps with arthritic caution, planting
his drover's boots carefully. His cranky
high-pitched voice carried across the street:
"You come here and listen, Fisk!"
The portly Fisk ignored him and
escaped into a brougham. Gideon heard him call
instructions to his driver as the carriage clattered
off.
The old man-Drew, he recognized-was
suddenly blocked by the boy, who addressed him in
heavily accented English.
"Black your boots, sir? I'll do a fine
job."
Louis stepped up, grabbed the boy's shoulder and
flung him aside. Old Drew, still seeking someone
to listen to his complaints, chose Louis. Above the
racket of departing vehicles, Drew exclaimed:
"Ain't going to Ludlow Street for you or any of the
rest of these sharps!"
Louis turned his back rudely and jumped in the
victoria. The door slammed. The vehicle shot
away across the rain slicked cobbles. The opening where
it had been standing gave Gideon a clear look at
Daniel Drew. Furious, the old man crammed
a battered cowman's hat on his head and headed for his
own carriage.
In moments the entire curb was deserted. The
bootblack picked up his box, heading east. The
toughs disappeared inside. Gideon heard the
rattle of a bolt on the gilt doors.
"Young fellow!" He stuffed the paper in his overcoat
and ran.
The bootblack's pinched face showed suspicion as
Gideon approached. The suspicion intensified
when a gusting flame in the barrel showed the boy the
color of Gideon's overcoat.
"I don't shine no boots for Rebs."
"That man who shoved you-was Gideon slipped two
coins into the boy's hand. "Did you hear him speak
to his driver?"
The boy examined the coins as if they weste tainted.
But he pocketed them.
"Might have."
"Did he say where he was going?"
"Someplace on East Twenty-seventh."
"Did you catch the number?"
The boy's eyes had an old, weary look. He
stuck his hand in his pocket and rattled the coins,
almost tauntingly. Gideon found another ten-cent
piece and held it up in the firelight. The boy
repeated an address.
"Is that someone's home?"
The boy sneezed and wiped mucus from his nose. His
smirk said Gideon, not he, was the naive
stranger.
"Everybody knows Mrs. Bell's Universal."
"I don't. Is it a saloon?"
"Whorehouse. Too rich for you."
The boy strolled away. In the distance an omnibus
bell clanged.
Gideon debated. East Twenty-seventh Street
was across town; a long car ride. By the time he
arrived, Louis could well be gone. Still, he might
have a better chance to see him at a brothel than he
did at the Fifth Avenue mansion.
As he started east on Duane, the rain began again.
He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering and put
his hands in his pockets. Five cents bought him warm
chestnuts from a pushcart vendor. The hunger pains
abated a little.
But the food did nothing to warm him as he trudged
on. The rain fell harder. It promised to be a
long, cold night.
At the Universal
IN A PRIVATE second-floor parlor of
Mrs. Hester Bell's establishment on East
Twenty-seventh Street, Jubilee Jim was
having a bath. If Louis had ever witnessed such a
bizarre scene, he couldn't recall it.
The parlor's walls and ceiling were covered
with mirrors. On a dais in the center of the carpet
sat an oversized zinc tub topped with imported
marble. A mirrored door led to a bedchamber.
Mrs. Bell also provided a piano for patrons
aesthetically inclined.
The club's blind black musician was working
downstairs at the moment. The arpeggios of a
classical piece drifted to the parlor,
interspersed with restrained feminine merriment. The
door to the hall was bolted on the inside. After the
formal board meeting had broken up, Fisk had
insisted on a private conference. He refused to go
anywhere but the club; Miss Mansfield was suffering
her monthly indisposition.
Louis sat at a small marble table next to the
wall opposite the bedroom. Across the table was the
small and sallow Jay Gould. An obligatory
glass of lager stood beside his pale hand. He
resembled a church deacon transported to hell
against his will.
Wherever Louis looked-right, left, or overhead-he
saw Jubilee Jim submerged to his chest in
perfumed water and surrounded by a constantly changing
mosaic of bare buttocks, dark-nippled breasts,
and black hair.
Fisk had a sea captain's hat cocked on his
yellow curls. He was being tended by a pair of
Oriental girls. Chinese, Mrs. Bell said.
Neither was more than eighteen.
The Universal dub employed girls of eleven
nationalities complus two men, a Portuguese
and a West Indian mulatto, who catered to a
small segment of the clientele. Mrs. Bell
guaranteed none of the employees could speak
English, thus assuring their discretion. A
cadaverous fellow named Dr. Randolph acted as
club manager and translator; he'd been a
professor of languages at a New England
academy for boys until his dismissal on morals
charges.
Fisk, a regular at the Universal, had brought
Louis there for the first time three weeks ago. Louis
had heard of the place before that, of course. But it
took a man of Fisk's status to gain him
admittance as a customer.
He wished the meeting had been arranged for another
location, though. Somehow the sight of the naked young women
bothered him; reminded him of the little dancer, Nedda,
whom he thought he'd forgotten.
"Giggling, one of the girls refilled
Fisk's champagne glass. The other girl,
kneeling on the tub's far side, was vigorously
bathing the fat man. At least her arm was immersed
to the elbow, and her unseen hand appeared quite busy.
Fisk's face was a study in simpleminded
bliss.
Louis cleared his throat. Gould said:
"Jim, you've inconvenienced me by insisting we
traipse over to a place like this. Let's get on
with the business."
"Jay, my friend-was Fisk tilted his glass,
drank, and smacked his lips. Some of the liquid
dribbled down his chin. The trouble with you is, you're
too starched. Too blasted starched."
He winked at Louis. "I always tell Jay
there's one
big difference between us. I have more trouble to get my
dinner than to digest it. He has more trouble to digest
it than to get it. Enjoy yourself for a change, Jay!"
"My idea of a good time is to be home with Helen
and the boys."
"All right," Fisk pouted. He jiggled the forearm
of the girl bathing him. "You wait in the bedroom."
The girl blushed, unable to understand. Fisk waved the
champagne goblet:
"In there. Vamoose! Scat!"
The two retired, rumps jiggling. The mirrored
door closed. With a pallid hand Gould pushed his
beer glass toward Louis.
"You may have this if you want it. I haven't touched
it."
"Jesus, what an old stiff neck!" Fisk
heaved himself out of the tub, snatched a towel, and began
drying his genitals. He wrapped the towel around his
paunch, sat on the marble tub rim, and wiggled his
pink toes. "We do need to have a talk, though. I
think Uncle Dans losing his nerve."
Gould shrugged, unexpectedly tolerant.
"When a fellow passes seventy, he's bound to be
less than steady."
"Oh, shit on that, Jay. The Commodore's three
years older than Dan and he hasn't lost his
nerve. He's busy as a flea on a hound.
He's out to corner Erie shares, keep us from issuing
any more, and use his majority to shovel in a whole
new board of directors next month. Unless we
prevent it."
Louis knocked back the rest of his champagne and
reached for the bottle in its silver stand. "We took
action to prevent it this afternoon. Jay's
inspiration solved our problem."
He said it with genuine respect. Gould had
remembered an antique printing press stored in the
basement of the Erie offices.
Louis hoped the press was the answer to the
difficulties they'd encountered in the past few
weeks. The war was intensifying. After the vote on
rate fixing had gone against the Commodore thanks
to Louis" efforts, the old man had realized the
Boston group was abandoning him. He'd issued a
terse order in the Street: "Buy Erie and keep
on buying."
While his brokers piled up shares, he took
steps to prevent Gould's faction from doing the same.
Just two days ago, his captive State Supreme
Court judge, had issued an injunction preventing
the Erie from paying Drew interest or principal on
an outstanding loan of three and a half million
dollars; money that could have bought shares. Judge
Barnard had separately enjoined Drew from
speculating with a sizable block of stock still in his
possession.
That had been the gloomy picture until the afternoon's
gathering of the board-from which the Commodore's men had
lately absented themselves. In his most
confidential manner, Gould had pointed out that
despite the injunctions, the Vanderbilt group had
failed to plug up an escape hatch-a complex
New York state law' permitting issuance of
new shares when one railroad acquired another.
A few weeks before, the Erie had secretly
purchased the moribund Buffalo, Bradford, and
Pittsburgh line just in case injunctions were
forthcoming.
Now it was necessary to invoke the law to legalize a new
float of bonds convertible to stock. Following Mr.
Gould's quiet but stunning mention of the old printing
press in the basement, a vote had been taken
authorizing ten millions of such bonds.
Louis had helped draft the language for the
minutes. In outrageously straight-faced
sentences, the directors had despaired the move was
being made because of an urgent and distressing report from
the line's general manager. He was pleading for
funds to repair the Erie
trackage, where, the minutes now read, it is
wholly unsafe to run a passenger train at the
ordinary speed. Broken wheels, rails, engines,
and cars off the track have been off daily, almost
hourly occurrence for the past two months.
It looked marvelously official. But the three
gentlemen at Mrs. Bell's knew the worried
general manager would never see a penny of the income
from the new issue.
Louis chuckled. "By God, it is a brilliant
move- churning out bonds in the basement."
"That's the spirit I like to see!" Fisk exclaimed,
jumping up. The towel fell away, but he paid no
attention. He capered like an overage cherub. "Just
give me enough rag paper and we'll hammer the
everlasting tar out of that old mariner from Staten Island!"
"Of course," Gould thought aloud, "the Commodore
will soon know we're simply dumping more shares on the
market."
"And he'll go after them," Louis agreed. "It's
no strain on his bank account. He still has thirty
millions to play with."
Fisk waved that aside. "After we've swallowed
eight or nine million of his money, maybe
he'll realize he's throwing it down a sewer."
Warming to the subject, he practically pranced.
"We can print bonds faster than his brokerages can
buy "em! Ink's cheap. White paper's cheap.
If we can make Vanderbilt pay us fifty or
sixty dollars for little pieces of paper that
haven't cost us two cents, it's good night
Commodore!"
"Unless he moves against us in the courts again,"
Gould warned.
"I'm more worried about Uncle Dan'l," Louis
put in. "Jim's right-I think he's going soft."
That sobered Fisk dramatically. "Yes,
Drew's the real reason I wanted us to meet.
If we lose his vote, we're hulled and sunk.
He has enough influence on the
board to stop us from running the press. And he's
scared. Jay, you saw how he turned white when you
proposed the printing scheme. Danny still wants
to win, I think. But the question is-how badly?"
Jay Gould didn't answer immediately. He sat like
a meditating ascetic, his mournful eyes probing
places beyond the ken of his companions. Finally he
roused.
"I agree, Dan's a queer case these days. It
may be senility. Or perhaps he's just gotten too
fond of endowing seminaries and preening in his pew at
St. Paul's. Business and religion are oil and
water. Whatever the reason, he's forgotten that."
Fisk agreed vehemently: "When he voted for the
bond issue this afternoon, his hands were shaking."
"And he tried to hector me about the idea
after-.ward-was Louis began.
"I suppose all he can see is a cell at
Ludlow Street," Gould said. "He'd be
devastated to have his pious reputation soiled by a term
in the clink."
"Well, Christ," Fisk laughed, "I don't
want to see the inside of the lockup any more than he
does. But as Dan himself used to say, if a cat
wants to eat a fish, she's got to be willing
to wet her feet. We're going to print the bonds as
fast as possible. While we do, it's up to each one
of us to keep pounding at Dan. Keep reminding him
we can't win any other way, and this way, we're
sure to win. Every time we dump shares, the price'll
drop. Vanderbilt's hirelings will jump in and spend
like Midas. The price'll go up, then we'll
crank the press and drive the market down again.
We'll have him dizzy and half broke if we
stick to it!"
"I'm in agreement," Gould said. "We must all
work on Drew. Bolster his nerve."
"I'll take him to lunch at the Union Club
tomorrow," Louis promised.
"A good start." Gould's almost colorless
lips curved in a tiny smile barely visible between
his moustache and
beard. "You've already proved your persuasive powers
are considerable, Louis. Just don't utter the word
injunction to Dan. It terrifies him. However, I
do think it's probable Vanderbilt will get another one
to prevent us from running the press."
"That's another point on which we have to agree,"
Fisk nodded. "What if it happens? Do we
stop?" He barely paused. "I say no."
Louis pondered. The prospect of lengthy court
proceedings comeven an arrest-was unappetizing. But
he didn't dare offend Fisk; he was in too
deeply.
"So do I," he said.
Gould said, "I'm wondering how long we can keep
Vanderbilt from realizing what we're up to."
"Mmm." Fisk scratched his jowl. "Today's the
nineteenth. I'd guess a week/maybe two."
"We can take a hell of a lot of his money in that
time," Louis said.
"But how do you vote on stopping, Jay?" Fisk
prodded. "I'd like it to be unanimous."
Gould's face showed no hint of hesitation. "It
is. We go straight ahead until the
constables bring an injunction to the doorsill. Then
we'll figure out our next move."
"If there is an injunction," Fisk said,
"Uncle Dan'l will quit."
"Want to quit," Gould corrected. "Again it's
up to us to prevent him. Remind him that if he
buckles, he'll not only be unable to shower endowments
on churches, he'll be a ruined man. We must
keep cautioning Danny that jail is bad, a
tarnished reputation is worse, but being ruined is
worst of all. Ruined is the key word. It's
better to risk Ludlow Street now-or hell in the
hereafter- than be ruined. Deep down, Drew knows
it."
The balding financier's eyes were brightly thoughtful.
Louis shivered. Gould was an absolute wizard,
not only of share manipulation but of the forces that
motivated
men. In the contemporary vocabulary there was no word
more potent than ruined. Men would risk almost anything
rather than be labeled with it. So would women-although to the
female sex, ruin meant a loss of something other
than wealth.
Louis began to feel less anxious. Fisk too
seemed relieved. He lifted one flabby
leg into the tub and lowered himself. "Knew we'd see
eye to eye. We'll go ahead." He belched,
adjusted his nautical cap, and used an index finger
to dribble perfumed water into his navel. "And, between
us, we'll keep Danny's pecker stiff when it
droops. Every one of us is responsible."
A glance at Louis. It said he was being tested again.
He still didn't enjoy the full measure of confidence
Fisk and Gould had in one another. But they'd handed
him another chance to prove his worth. He wouldn't
neglect it.
Out in the hall, someone knocked.
Gould jerked upright. "Confound it, Jim, we
issued explicit orders."
The words carried an edge of concern. Louis strode
to the door.
"Who's there?"
"Mrs. Bell," a basso voice replied. "That
you, Mr. Kent?"
"Yes. We said we weren't to be interrupted."
"Well, sir, I'm afraid you'll have to be," the
woman retorted. "We have a peculiar situation
downstairs. Some fellow's asking for you."
Louis" stomach knotted when he heard Gould's
sharp intake of breath. Fisk began
to burble outraged questions.
"Tell him I'm not here, for God's sake!"
"He knows you are. He's polite but he's
insistent."
Louis turned. As he pointed to the bolt, his
nervous eyes queried the other two men. He got a
curt nod from
Gould, unlocked the door, and admitted a
massive woman in a brocaded gown.
"Why didn't you have Dr. Randolph get rid of
him?" Louis demanded.
"Because," Mrs. Bell shot back, "he says his
name's the same as yours. He says his name's
Kent."

Jay Gould stormed toward them.
"Louis, what the devil is going on here?"
Stunned, Louis lifted both hands. "Jay, it's
a damned mystery to me. How old is this man,
Mrs. Bell? Forty-five? Is he wearing shabby
clothes, like a parson's?"
Hester Bell shook her head. "He's shabby,
all right. But I've never seen a parson in a
Confederate overcoat. The boy's in his twenties.
Partially blind. That is, I assume so.
He wears a patch?-was
One of her ringed hands touched the powdered skin below her
left eye. She added:
"He says he won't go till he speaks with you."
"Blast it, I knew we shouldn't have come here!"
Gould cried. "Who is he, Louis?"
"I don't know!"
"You've talked about your cousin, the preacher. I've
never heard you mention any other Kents."
Louis began to perspire. Even Fisk no longer
looked cordial.
"Reverend Kent has a couple of sons," Louis
explained hastily. "I've never met them. I had
no idea any of them were in New York. They're
Virginians."
"Frankly," Gould murmured, "I don't care
who it is. Someone knows you're on the premises-and
may know I am too. I have a reputation
to protect."
That amused Mrs. Bell.
"About the same kind as a Kansas
rattlesnake's."
Gould went livid. "I'm referring to Helen and
my
sons. I sent my carriage home. You
get that blasted Dr. Randolph to whistle up a
hack. Send it to the entrance by the back stairs right
away."
He snatched up his overcoat, stick, and gloves.
Mrs. Bell sighed:
"I'll do the best I can. It's still raining. May
take a little while."
Gould's eyes reflected the gaslight Eke
chips of burning coal.
"It "better not take longer than two or three
minutes or I'll speak to Bill Tweed, and then
all the cash on the Street won't help you keep
your doors open."
The warning was softly spoken. But Hester Bell
looked terrified. Gould turned his wrath on
Louis.
"I don't care what personal matters have brought
your relative here, but you damned well-was He
thrust the gold head of his cane into Louis' chest.
Louis turned red but held his temper. Gould was in
an absolute fury; that was plain from his use of
profanity.
"comdamned well better get rid of him, and not let
on you're here for any reason except pleasure!"
Fisk came flopping out of the tub like a
white whale. "It's all damned puzzling.
Smacks of one of the Commodore's tricks--sending
some fellow around to spy on us. You came in your own
rig, didn't you, Louis?"
His voice was unexpectedly weak:
"y-yes. Straight from the headquarters."
"Was there anyone hanging around when you left?"
He tried to recollect. "Just the other board
members. Oh, and a boot boy."
"Did you give this address to your driver?"
"Of course."
"Loud enough so the boy could hear?"
"I honestly paid attention."
He began to feel increasingly threatened. Cornered,
Fisk and Gould stuck together. In a space of
seconds he'd again become an outsider-and all because
of
some damned act of carelessness he couldn't remember!
His voice trailed off in a lame way:
"I suppose it's possible."
"Well," Gould snapped, "you've created a
devil of a mess."
"Jay, I'll take care of it!"
The black eyes were those of an enemy. "I know you
will."
Gould swept by, turned right in the corridor, and
disappeared down the back stairs. Louis shivered
again.
"Get out of here, get out, for Christ's sake!"
Fisk exclaimed. He shoved Louis into the hall,
and Hester Bell after him. The door slammed. The
bolt rattled in its socket.
Louis' stomach was hurting fiercely now. If he
had needed to be reminded of the stakes for which the Erie
War was being fought-or the way an ally could be
abandoned at the slightest hint of trouble-the last few
minutes had done it.
"Mrs. Bell, are you sure this fellow said his name
was Kent?"
"I'm not deaf. He said it."
"Is he armed?"
"Not that I could tell."
He thought quickly. "You have a back parlor
downstairs, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Private?"
"Q."
"Show him in there. I'll be down in three or four
minutes." He reached into his pocket, pulled out
a clip containing greenbacks and gold
certificates. "There's a hundred for your help."
Hester Bell slipped the money down her bodice.
But she'd turned on him too:
"I don't want any scrapes here, Mr.
Kent. I pay off too many policemen-and through them,
the Boss him
self." She meant the man to whom Gould had
referred -William Tweed, who virtually ruled
the city through his control of the Tammany Society and the
board of supervisors.
"I'm paying you to help me avoid a scrape!"
Louis countered. "Are your two roughnecks in the
house?"
"At night they're never out of the house."
"Have them stand by near the parlor."
"All right." She started away, then swung back.
"Mr. Kent, I can be almost as vindictive as little
Jay. If you've brought personal quarrels into my
club and are trying to pretend you don't know anything
about it-was
"I don't!"
"You'd better be telling the truth," she smiled,
picking up the train of her dress and hurrying toward
the main staircase.
Damn her! Where did the madam of a
brothel get the gall to speak to him that way?
He knew very well. She was an intimate of
Jubilee Jim-he was tight with Gould-and Louis
had only been lately admitted to their confidence.
If he bungled again, he would be out.
Tormented by worry, he paced the upper hall
until he judged three minutes had passed. Then
he wiped his palms on his trousers and started for the
front stairs.
THE TINTED GLASS BOWLS of the
hallway gas jets cast a watery aquamarine
light. Gideon paced back and forth in the entrance
of the parlor to which Mrs. Bell had led him. The
room opened off the long, narrow corridor at a
point midway between the front foyer and a vestibule
leading to a back door with an elaborate
stained-glass window. bout
ten feet back of the parlor and perhaps six feet from the
vestibule, there was a large dark recess in the .
opposite wall. The well of a rear staircase,
he suspected. He kept his eye on it. He had
no idea where Louis would appear-or if he would.
But for several moments now, he'd had an eerie
feeling that someone was lurking in the recess.
Hesitating there-perhaps hoping he'd desert
the hall.
Could it be his cousin?
The presence of the unseen observer only heightened his
fear and uncertainty. He'd brazened his way into the
Universal Club by using Louis Kent's name and
pretending a familiarity that didn't exist. Now
he wasn't sure how to proceed. He was beginning
to think he was foolish indeed to believe he could stand
up to one of the directors of the line-or even speak his
mind in a coherent way.
He was uncomfortably conscious of the fetid stench of
his wet overcoat. He must look a sight.
Certainly he
"I'm on Top, Ain't 18"649
looked out of place in this quiet, elegant
corridor where blue shimmered.
A faint squeak by the back stairs. He was
virtually certain someone was there. He turned and
walked into the oartor-but not far.
He heard the footsteps distinctly. Two long
strides took him back to the hall. A short man
with a walking stick was hurrying toward the vestibule.
He darted a look over his shoulder.
Gideon's heart pounded. Recognition was
instantaneous.
The bearded man averted his head and rushed on toward
the stained-glass door. Afterward Gideon never knew
where he found the courage-better, the idiotic
audacity--to go charging down the hall in' pursuit.
Perhaps it came from an unconscious realization that
he'd never again have such an opportunity.
"Mr. Gould?"
The short man broke stride. Gideon's mouth
went dry.
"Mr. Gould, wait. You're one of the men I
want to see."
The man hesitated. Then he turned around.
Gideon almost winced under the impact of the piercing
dark eyes. The caver of Leslie's had sprung
to life.
He hadn't realized Gould was so small. Five
foot six or seven inches. The financier spoke
softly, but with more than a hint of strain:
"You've mistaken me for someone else, sir."
"No, I don't believe-wait!" Gideon
lunged for Gould's arm as he started away.
Gould panicked. Wrenched out of Gideon's
grip. At the front end of the hall, footsteps
quickened to a run:
"Let go of him!" ,
Someone seized Gideon's shoulder; flung him
against the wall, Pendants on the gas fixtures
tinkled.
"Jesus, Jay, I'm sorry. Are you all
right?"
Dots of color appeared above Gould's beard.
In the stairwell Gideon glimpsed two
heavy-set men watching. Where had they come from?
There was confusion on Louis Kent's swarthy face;
Gould's anger seemed chiefly directed at him.
Gideon forced himself to say, "You'd better listen
to me, Mr. Gould-was
The short man ignored that, giving Louis another
furious glance before starting for the stained glass door
again.
"comunless you'd care to have it noised about that you frequent
whorehouses."
Jay Gould stood absolutely still, his head
tilted back slightly. When he turned, his lips
barely moved.
"Is this your relative, Louis?"
"Jay, I've never seen him before! I don't
know-was
"Will you stop repeating my name like a parrot?"
Gould glowered past Gideon's shoulder.
In the front foyer, two round-eyed girls ducked
out of sight. Suddenly Gould stalked to Gideon and
pushed him toward the parlor.
"In there! I don't discuss anything, in
hallways!"
Gideon tried to walk calmly, straight to the
center of the parlor. Louis, distraught and sweating,
fumbled at the sliding door. He couldn't seem
to locate the handle. Gould thrust him aside and
closed the door with a thump.
Two trimmed gas jets cast a blue light much
weaker than that in the corridor. Gould seated himself
at one of the marble tables, his gloved hands planted on
the head of his stick. Louis leaned against the door,
breathing noisily.
"Identify yourself," Gould said.
"My name is Gideon Kent."
"I'm on Top, Ain't I8"651
"You are this gentleman's cousin?"
Gideon could barely nod. He tried to remember
the financier was as mortal as he. The remark about a
whorehouse, a sudden inspiration prompted
by Jephha's comment on Gould's personal life,
had given him Gould's attention. He must take
advantage of that.
"Mr. Kent and my father are actually second
cousins -"
"State your business."
Gideon's voice steadied. "I'm employed in the
Erie yards over in Jersey City." Louis
inhaled sharply. "I'm a switchman. Since the
first of the year, two men- friends of mine-have been in
serious accidents while on the job."
He was perspiring. But he dared not stop.
"One lost both legs. The other was killed, just this
week. Both left dependents. Families that now
have no income. They did your work, Mr. Gould.
I want-was
On an impulse, he doubled the figure he'd had
in mind.
"I want twenty thousand dollars for each
family."
"Twenty thousand?" Louis gasped. He stinted
to snicker. A gesture from Gould cut it off.
"Let me correct one thing you said," the financier
murmured to Gideon. "You were employed by the Erie
line. As of tonight, that connection is severed."
"Of all the lunatic demands-to " Louis
exclaimed.
Astonishingly, Gould chuckled. His
black eyes remained fixed on Gideon.
"You have brass, Mr. Kent. I'll give you that.
But in all sincerity, I must tell you that your
cousin's word- lunatic-barely covers it. No
railroad, including the Erie, pays money to those
who are killed or injured while on duty. The
risk is a condition of employment. You're very
foolish to think otherwise." He leaned forward.
"Unless you're some sort of union rabble-rouser.
But we have no union that I'm aware of."
"Perhaps it's time you did."
Louis started to slide the door back. "This has
gone far enough. Let me whistle up the boys-was
Gould's raised glove checked him. "I want
to hear the rest."
"I've said my piece, Mr. Gould. Except
for this. You make plenty of money from the Erie. A
fortune, I've heard. You can afford something for the
families of two men whose lives were wiped out while
they were working to fatten your bank balance."
"Of course I could afford it," Gould agreed.
"You're not speaking to the issue. You completely
misinterpret the purpose of a business-or the
purpose of employees." His voice dropped;
he became the weary father dealing with a slow child:
"Any employee of the Erie line must look after
himself as I do for myself. Employees are parts of the
machinery of the Erie, nothing more. Sound business
policy dictates that when a part is ruined, money
be spent for a new one, not on trying to salvage a
useless one."
Gideon was thunderstruck. "Parts of the machinery?
That's how you regard human beings?"
"Exactly."
"In-was He forced himself to speak up. "In this case
it's going to be different."
"Merely because you ask?"
"Yes."
"Well," Gould said with another shrug, "you're quite
wrong. Your friends mean nothing to me, and I daresay
any other astute manager would feel exactly the
same." He wagged the ferrule of his stick under
Gideon's nose. "I do admire your nerve,
Mr. Kent. But your thinking is pitifully naive.
Good evening."
Parts of the machinery. That was the sorry truth of it,
Gideon had no doubt. Nor would Jay Gould
change his position or bend even a little. It was
evident in the
"I'm on Top, Ain't I8"653
brisk way Gould started ,forthe sliding door; it was
evident from the relieved smile on Louis Kent's
face. The momentarily annoying gnat had been
killed.
Terrible discouragement swept over Gideon.
Louis and Gould would laugh for years over his
clumsy demands.
As Gould approached the door, Gideon noted a
glint of perspiration on his forehead. By God, I
did unsettle him a little! It was enough to drive him
to one last gamble:
"I thank you for listening to me, anyway. Your
decision will be announced Sunday. Along with an
account of when and where you made it."
Jay Gould's balding forehead gleamed as if it had
been oiled. "What do you mean-announced?"
"Just what I said. I'm not alone in this effort. Your
comments will be repeated from the pulpit of St. Mark's
Methodist Episcopal Church on Orange
Street."
"That must be his father's church." Louis said.
Gould whispered, "Mr. Kent, your father surely
would not make reference to a place like this in a
sermon."
"On the contrary. He's a very forthright
man."
"I am here on business!"
Somehow Gideon managed to laugh. "I'm sure you
are, sir."
Gideon was conscious of Louis' having moved around
behind him, to his left. He was hidden by Gideon's
limited field of vision. He heard leather
scrape the carpeting, turned his head and saw
Lewis start for him:
"We've had enough from you-was
"Stand where you are and shut your damned mouth!"
Gould's shaken voice stopped Louis like a child's
marionette whose string had been jerked taut.
Gideon was almost delirious to see the little man so
badly out of control. He prayed he could keep his
voice steady another five seconds.
"Perhaps
you should bring your family to St. Mark's on the
Sabbath, Mr. Gould. Perhaps your wife would be
interested in learning where you conduct your affairs."
The parlor was still. A classical melody drifted
from the front of the club. Gideon caught the creak
of a board in the corridor. Undoubtedly the two
men from the stairwell. All Gould had to do was
summon them and Gideon was done for.
"Jay, it's a damn bluff!" Louis insisted.
Gould didn't even glance at him. Gideon
couldn't fathom what had happened to his cousin.
Louis seemed to sag, lose confidence. He stared
at Gould like a worried boy who'd failed
to please his parents.
Gould swallowed. Ran his tongue over his upper
lip. "Yes, I suspect it is a bluff. But
I don't intend to find out. I don't intend to have
Helen find out."
Gideon felt dizzy.
"Mr. Kent, you or your representative may
call at my brokerage tomorrow. There'll be a draft
waiting. In the amount you specified. The draft will
be drawn on The Bank of Commerce in Nassau
Street. It will bear the name of an account holder who
is unfamiliar to you. There will be no way for you to link
the money with the New York and Erie, or with me.
If you try, you'll be laughed at. Are you willing
to accept those terms?"
Gould's voice was quiet. Yet Gideon was still
terrified. He managed to nod. The small dark
eyes locked with his.
"I'll say it again. You have brass. Jim Fisk
has brass. I have a touch of it myself.
Always have. When I was a boy, I had one good friend.
Twice as tall as I am. We used to wrestle.
Most of the time I'd beat him. A fellow my
size-that's unlikely, eh? But you see, I
wouldn't beat him fair. I'd use every trick I
knew. He'd complain, but it didn't bother me.
Know what I'd tell him? "I'm on top,
ain't I?"' You're on top for the moment, though
you're not entirely responsible. This-gentleman-was
"I'm on Top, Ain't I8"655
A scorching look at Louis.
"comsmoothed your path without intending to do so. Nevertheless,
I admire any man who comes out on top by using
whatever means he finds at his disposal. That's not
to say you'll ever be on top of Jay Gould again."
He smiled. Gideon's mouth was bone dry.
"I'll pay you what you demand-once. But I
won't forget the way you forced me to do it."
He pointed the stick at Gideon's face.
"I promise you, I won't forget."
He started for the door. Louis hurried to his
side, but before he could speak, Gould slashed the
stick against Louis' arm.
"Get out of my way."
Gideon's cousin stumbled aside. Gould
poked the ferrule in the handle of the sliding door. The
door rolled back, and Jay Gould scurried off
in the watery blue light

Louis gaped at Gideon as if he were some
creature on exhibit in a menagerie; beyond his
comprehension. The heavy-set men glided into sight in
the hall. For a moment Gideon was positive he'd
never leave the Universal Club on his own feet.
Then Gould called from down the hall:
"Let him go, boys. If anyone fixes him,
it'll be me."
The rear door closed. The men eyed one another.
Gideon took advantage of their hesitation and
started to walk.
Speechless with anger, Louis watched him pass.
Gideon turned right. Moved with feigned calm
toward the foyer of the brothel. He listened for the sound
of a rush, but it didn't come. He kept his hands
thrust in his pockets so the girls and a couple of
male patrons in the front parlor wouldn't see
him shaking as he passed.
In the parlor, the blind black musician lifted his
fingers from the keys. Sniffed:
"Old wool coat. Don't belong in this
place."
Hester Bell opened the front door and held it,
eyeing Gideon with a curiously awed expression.
He stepped into the rain and closed his eyes briefly
as he walked down the steps. Now his legs were
shaking.
When he was out of sight of the entrance, he ran.
Casualty of War
UNDER JUBILEE JIM'S none U caret friendly
scrutiny, Louis jammed the last of the green caret
backs in the cheap suitcase. He handed the
suitcase to the burly guard who rushed it down the
stairs and outside.
Louis looked wan in the March sunlight slanting
through the high windows of the Erie office. Fisk and
Gould were treating him as if he were-hired help,
not a partner.
"That's the lot, Jay." He leaned against the side
of the great iron safe, empty now. Gould finished
scanning some papers, shoved them into the stove, and
asked:
"You made an accurate count?"
Louis started to reply, then realized Gould hadn't
been speaking to him. Fisk's brow furrowed at the
attempted intrusion; he answered the question:
"Twenty-eight suitcases. All but two are
already gone in the first hack."
"How much in total?"
"Six millions. For God's sake, will you
hurry up with that damned paper shuffling?"
"I'm done," Gould said, reaching for his expensive
tweed overcoat.
Jay Gould had sent a messenger to upper Fifth
Avenue to summon Louis. By the time Louis had
arrived on Duane Street at a quarter to one,
all the headquarters employees had been sent
home. One guard occupied the
porch, admitting no one without permission of Gould
or Fisk. The other guard toted comthe suitcases
to a hack as fast as Louis and the fat man could fill
them.
Gould had spent the time sorting through documents,
retaining a few in a valise, burning others and
discarding the rest on the floor. The large office
looked as if it had been struck by a paper
blizzard.
"How's Daniel holding up?" Gould wanted
to know.
"He's out there blubbering like an infant. He don't
like the idea of running to Jersey. We
won't get the chance if you don't shake a leg.
I have boys waiting at the Cortlandt Street
Ferry to act as a rear guard, but until we reach
the terminal we're fair game."
Gould remained unperturbed. "Have you booked a
hotel?"
"I sent Chad to Jersey City right after we got the
news from court. He's arranging for suites at
Taylor's. I'm also having three cannon sent
over so Vanderbilt can't surprise us. We'll be
snug by dark-if we get out of here."
Louis decided he should take encouragement from having
been asked to help with the clean-out. Gould wouldn't have
dispatched the messenger if their alliance had been
permanently damaged. The thought took the sting from the
way they'd ignored him the past hour or so.
The abandonment of Duane Street was the result or
the latest in the series of bizarre moves and counter
moves in the struggle for dominance of the Erie.
Gould's scheme to use the basement printing press
had worked exactly as planned. In fact it had
worked so well that the thousands of shares dumped in the
Street had depressed not only the price of Erie
but those of other issues. The papers had started
screaming about an "Erie Panic."
Naturally Vanderbilt had caught on to what was
happening. Supreme Court Judge Barnard had
enjoined
the line from issuing any more stock. Gould had immediately
paid for a counter-injunction from another member of the bench.
Then Vanderbilt retaliated with still more court orders,
placing the line into receivership and ordering the arrest of
key directors for stock fraud. The last
decree had been handed down late that morning.
Now the six million in the suitcases-the money
earned by the basement press-was going out of the
jurisdiction of New York law, together with
Messrs. Gould and Fisk. Louis had overheard
the two discussing reorganization of the line as a New
Jersey corporation. In Jersey, Vanderbilt would
have difficulty exerting his influence. Of course, the
reorganization remained strictly theoretical
while the planners were still in Manhattan.
"You go along, Jim," Gould instructed. "I'll
be there shortly."
With a baleful glance at his huge pocket watch,
Fisk vanished down the stairs.
A tug hooted on the river. Dust motes moved
slowly through pale sunbeams. It seemed unthinkable
to Louis that a carriage-load of deputy
sheriffs might be clattering toward Duane Street
this very moment. It seemed nearly as unthinkable that
weeks had passed since Gould had met Gideon
Kent and surrendered what amounted to pocket change
to save Himself from a potential scandal. In all that
time, Louis had not heard a syllable of reproof from
the financier.
Of course, Gould had been frantically busy with
Erie affairs. On several occasions Louis had
tried to invite Gould to his club for a drink, an
expensive dinner-and an apology. Each time
Gould had brushed him aside. Finally Louis had
attempted to apologize after a board meeting,
only to have Gould walk away. He was beginning
to think Gould might have accepted the defeat and put it
behind him in the face of more pressing problems.
Louis started to don his coat. "You needn't do that,"
Gould remarked quietly. "You're not coming with us."
"Not coming? What about the warrant?"
"You're not named. Just Drew, Jim, and myself.
I've checked. Even if you were included, my
original statement stands. You're not coming with us
to Jersey City."
"Then why did you call me down here? Why in hell
did you let me help and think I was still part
of it-?"
He stopped. Gould smiled at his discomfort. He
knew the answers:
"You did it so you could build me up to this. You son
of a bitch!"
"I'll overlook that," Gould murmured as he
tugged on leather driving gloves. His voice was so
muted Louis had to strain to hear. "If there's
name-calling to be done, I'd say I deserve first
crack. When you were approached to help guarantee a
favorable vote on the freight rates, I
believe Jim made it clear I'd tolerate no
objections to my decisions. Nor would I think
well of any man whose actions intentionally or
inadvertently subjected me to personal
embarrassment. You nearly cost me the love and
respect of my wife and children, Louis. You nearly
saw to it that an announcement was made from a pulpit,
a public pulpit, that I frequent houses of
ill repute."
Sweating, Louis exclaimed, "For Christ's
sake, it was Fisk who insisted we meet there!"
"But it was you who led that cousin of yours to Mrs.
Bell's."
"How many times must I tell you, Jay?
I had no idea he was following me!"
"Carelessness is not a virtue in a businessman,
Louis."
The dark eyes bit into him like augers. "Once
we're safely in New Jersey, there will be a
vote to remove you from the board of directors.
Danny, Jim and I are authorized to act as an
executive committee and do that,
you know. I trust you enjoyed your brief career with the
Erie. You'll never have a similar opportunity if
my word means anything."
"You just used me for the freight vote, is that it?"
"I use whoever it's expedient to use. That's how
I stay on top. Some of the people I use remain my
friends. Some don't You fall in the latter group.
You can't be trusted."
"Jay-was Louis groped at him.
"Don't touch me," Gould whispered, and walked out
The hack careened through darkening streets. "I don't
like this," Drew complained from his seat beside one of the
guards. "I don't like being carted off to Jersey,
away from my church."
The guard tactfully ignored the outburst. He
continued to stare out the window, his hand curled around the
butt of a pistol.
"You'll find another over there," Gould assured the
old man. "Just remember there are no regular
services in the Ludlow Street jail."
"Vanderbilt's sure to send bullyboys after us,"
Fisk said. He actually sounded pleased. "The
hotel's near the waterfront, y'know. I think we
should have a shore patrol. Three or four
lifeboats carrying men we can trust We'll call
it the Erie Navy and Coast Guard. What do you
think, Jay?"
Gould pursed his lips in distaste. "Before you start
playing admiral, I want you to attend to another
piece of business. It pertains to that young man who
milked me for forty thousand dollars."
He shifted his eyes quickly to indicate the suffering
Dan Drew. "I needn't go into it now, though."
"I'll see to it whenever you're ready," Fisk
promised.
Soon the hack rattled up to the Cortlandt
Street
Ferry Terminal. A dozen slum roughnecks
Fisk had recruited and sworn in as Erie
detectives were already unloading the suitcases from the
first cab. As Fisk hoisted the last two bags,
Drew again complained about leaving New
York. Fisk hustled him toward the entrance:
"Listen, Danny, I plan to send for Miss
Josie soon as I can. Say the word and I'll have
her bring a parson to keep you company."
Gould lingered in the windy March twilight. When the
last of the suitcases disappeared inside the building,
he approached the guard who'd been riding with him.
"Biggs, I want you to do a chore after we've
gone."
"Yes, sir?" The taller man smoothed an index
finger along his moustache. He had to bend to hear the
next,
"I want Louis Kent hurt."
"Badly?"
Gould nodded. His dark eyes looked almost benign.
"I leave the means to you. But I don't want to be
connected. Ever."
Biggs smiled. "Got you." He touched his derby.
Jay Gould's head lifted in response to the
shriek of the ferry whistle. Smiling, he hurried
into the terminal.
in
Barely awake, Gideon scratched his nose. Not
only had he forgotten to extinguish the lamp in the
kitchen, Margaret had forgotten to damp the
stove and save the wood.
He could have ignored the stove. But the light was a
problem. He'd have to get up.
He yawned. He was exhausted. He'd spent the
day working for a farmer out in the county west of Hooken.
Helping the farmer tend his hogs. For fifty cents.
When he'd come home, he'd been too weary to do
what he'd been meaning to do for days: drop down
to the Diamond N. See who was there from the yards.
Speak to them-
No, exhaustion wasn't the only reason he
hadn't gone. He was sure they'd reject him, out
of fear.
But he'd already recognized that there'd be scores of
rejections before he achieved even one success. Why
was he letting potential defeat incapacitate
him?
. He knew that too. The moment he stepped inside
the Diamond n and uttered what was on his mind,
he could never turn back-
Hell. It was too taxing to think about right now.
The coverlet rustled. He propped himself on his
elbows; squinted. Eleanor peeped over the edge
of the bed.
"Papa? What's burning?"
He awoke instantly.
Eleanor coughed. She began to whimper as Gideon
prodded Margaret's hip.
"Margaret, get up. The place is on fire!"
His lethargy was gone. The glow in the was brightening to a
blaze. The smell he'd mistaken for stove wood
grew heavier. Smoke began to drift in the
bedroom.
He heard a crackling in the parlor. Margaret was
stirring, but slowly, God almighty! There were
flames near the front door as well-
"Eleanor, run to the window. Open it!"
He rammed his hands under his wife's body and
lifted. Her eyes flew open.
The flames shot around the frame of the kitchen door,
eating the thin walls, the old paper. Margaret saw
the fire as she hung in his arms.
Gideon was having trouble breathing. Why was the
cottage going up so quickly? Then he smelled a
telltale odor mingled with the smoke.
Eleanor struggled with the sash. "It's stuck,
Papa!"
"The blasted snow and ice-let me at it."
He set Margaret on the floor. He could feel
heat on his bare soles now. He fisted his
hand and drove it through the curtain and the glass. A
piece nicked his wrist. Blood sopped the cuff
of his nightshirt.
He picked up a chair, battered the most
dangerous shards out of the window frame. "Come here,
Eleanor. Hurry!" He had to shout above the mounting
roar.
Trembling, she let him lift her to the sill. She
jerked suddenly, frightened. Glass slashed her
instep. She screamed and fell back into Gideon's
arms.
That cost them precious seconds. When he'd
quieted the child, the fire was covering the wall by the
window. It had spread the other way too, along the
wall behind the bed. Red reflections glared in
Margaret's eyes.
He hooked his bloodied hand around Eleanor's
waist and dragged her to his shoulder. "Hold tight
to my neck." Margaret clutched his other arm.
"Why is it burning so fast, Gideon?"
"Because it was set! We have to go out the front."
He dragged his wife to the parlor. Fire ran
along the baseboard moldings. The smoke was so
thick he could barely see the front door. Before
they reached it, a barrier of flame
confronted them.
His eyes watered. The hem of his night shirt began
to smolder from stray sparks. "Hang on,
Eleanor. Margaret stay close to me. We'll have
to go through."
The fire glowed on the leather eye patch. There
wasn't even time to tell her he loved her. He
lowered his head and ran at the rising wall of heat and
flame.
IV
The wine from Delmonico's blurred his sight;
aroused him, too. Yet it did nothing to ease the
monstrous feeling of loss.
He had come so close. Cooperated. Played the
tame dog-and he'd been within reach of the very top rung
of
the ladder. Then, because his second cousin's son had
been clever and nervy enough to follow him to Mrs.
Bell's, it had all come undone.
Financially, he wouldn't suffer. He'd taken
maximum advantage of his tenure as an insider,
selling certain issues a day or two before a dump
of new Erie stock depressed prices on the
Street, and buying others advantageously when the
prices bottomed out. He'd more than
doubled the paper worth of his investments in only a
couple of months.
But the real cost of that profit had been the dismissal
from the board. Never again would men at the highest
levels of the financial community deal with him as an
equal-or as a man worthy of confidence. He had
been deemed unworthy by Jay Gould.
He knew it was being talked about on the Street and in
the clubs:
Gould got thick with Louis Kent for a few
weeks. But he dumped him. Gould's a
piratical son of a bitch, but there's no shrewder
man. Must be something wrong with that Kent fellow.
The divorce from Julia had cost him his friendship with
Vanderbilt. The Erie fiasco had cost him the
friendship of Vanderbilt's foremost peers. He was
well aware of how the Street would describe his
situation:
Kent may still have his money. Bui for all
practical purposes, he's ruined.
Clinging to the wrist strap of the victoria, Louis
tried to fix his attention on the squalid street.
An almost Stygian blackness enveloped it. The
damp air smelled of garbage and the river. It was a
filthy neighborhood, only a block from
the Bowery. The victoria was proceeding slowly
while Louis' driver searched for an address.
God, he hoped she was there. It was past midnight.
It had taken him two days to locate the address
through a theatrical agent. He didn't know what
he'd do if she
were gone. He couldn't stay by himself one more night.
She still meant nothing to him. But it had become
impossible to sleep or even think rationally in the
mansion on Fifth Avenue. He was sick of going
over and over his failure. What if? What
To come after her this way was an admission of weakness.
He didn't care. The solitude of the mansion was
unbearable. The solitude contained too many
specters. Too many reminders of how close he'd
come to absolute preeminence on the Street, in
America-the world.
"Believe this is it, sir." The victoria swayed
to a halt. "Not a very savory location. Do you wish
me to wait?"
"No. Pick me up at eight in the morning."
He stumbled to the curb, stepped across the corpse of a
cat and climbed the steep steps as his carriage
rattled off. He was peering at the tenant board when
the hollow clop-clop of another
carriage; horse caught his attention.
The hack was coming from the direction of the Bowery. His own
vehicle was already out of sight. But he was too
drunk to give the slowing cab more than a glance.
He struck a match. Among the cluster of dirty
cards he found one reading N. Chetwynd. He
heard a door close softly as he noted the
number on the card. The match went out.
All at once he realized a man was coming up the
steps. His responses were Sluggish from the prolonged
evening of drinking; he'd had virtually no food.
"Hallo, Mr. Kent."
The voice was unfamiliar. A tic started in his right
cheek. He was still facing the tenant's board,
slightly bent. Panic spread through him and he
started to turn:
"Wait. I'm not-was
His grunt interrupted the sentence. Then he shrieked
from the pain of the knife rammed into the lower quarter of his
back.
Gideon could still smell the smoke. Not the same
kind of pungent tobacco smoke lying heavily in the
Diamond N. The acrid smoke of charred siding;
burned cloth; ruined upholstery.
He spied Rory Bannock leaning on the
mahogany bar.
"Evening, Rory."
"Gid! Jesus, boy, we heard you got burned
out last night."
Gideon noted the ornamental clock. A quarter
past five. Soon Bannock would be leaving for the
night shift He slid a coin across the bar and
signaled for lager.
"Yes," he said, "there's nothing left of the
cottage. It's the landlord's responsibility, but
what little furniture we owned is gone. I barely
got Margaret and Eleanor out soon enough."
"Heard the fire was set."
"That's right."
"Coppers catch anyone?"
He shook his head. "Whoever poured the kerosene ran
away the moment it was lighted."
Bannock winced. "You got an idea who done
it?".
"No," Gideon lied. He knew very well. A
man who had met his demands but who had not forgiven
him. A man who was living down at Taylor's
Hotel right now, delighting the New York press
with his armed guards and his cohort's rowboat navy.
It was impossible to prove, of course. But
Jephtha's warning about retaliation had been
correct. Oddly, once Gideon's loved ones
were safe and the shock of the fire had passed, he was
almost pleased that Gould had seen fit to respond as
he did. The fire had finally given him the courage
to make his commitment.
"Anyone could have done it," he said before he
sipped from the stein. Bannock drained his. "There
are a lot of hungry men wandering around these days.
Hunger and failure can drive a fellow to crazy
things."
"You're out of a job, aren't you, Gid? Cuthie said
so."
"He's right."
"The Erie giveth and the Erie taketh away," the
other man remarked with a sour smile. "Speakin' of
giving, has anyone learned who sent all that money
to Flo Miller and Mrs. Kolb?"
"No. I suppose it was some charitable person in
New York."
"Didn't know there was any charitable persons in that
town. "Guess it doesn't matter who's
responsible, though. The families are deserving."
"So are the families of men who are still alive,
Rory. Your family. You deserve some
things too. Better wages. Shorter hours.
Things, the Erie'll never grant you unless you demand
them."
"Ah, that Sylvis stuff again," Bannock
grumbled. "Spare me."
For the moment.
"You're the one I fret about," Bannock went
on. "I hate to see you down. I never said this before,
but you're a helluva good lad, Gideon."
"That's quite a compliment." He smiled. "Especially
from a Yankee."
Bannock waved. "A witless Philadelphia
mick, you mean. Let's have no more of this Yankee
business, eh? The war's been over for three
years."
That war. Another's beginning.
Bannock leaned on his forearms, boozily
cordial. "Me and the missus, we talked about you
being bounced out of the yards. Now there's this fire-how will
you get by?"
"I don't know. But we will."
Sheltered temporarily at the Miller cottage,
he and
Margaret had already discussed the future and agreed
on what Gideon had to do. He planned
to keep on working at whatever jobs he could find. But
first he had a job here.
"Anyway, Rory, that's not what I came
to discuss."
He still had an opportunity to retreat. He was
pledging himself to a mission that would make him a-a
pariah, that was it. Fine word.
He'd be a pariah to a great many respectable people.
Yet the work needed doing. Unless someone took the first
step, it would go undone. Responsibility couldn't
be shrugged aside. Most of the Kents had believed that
for generations. He would not be an exception.
He dug his last coin out of his pocket. "Let me
buy you another beer, Rory." He grinned. "That
way, maybe you'll listen to what I have to say."
Standing straight and speaking calmly, he added, "I
want to talk with you about the necessity of starting a
union in the yards."
Epilogue at Kentland The Lifted Sword
THAT SPRING OF 1868 was a season of war. After
almost forty-nine years on the planet, the Reverend
Jephtha Kent was beginning to suspect there was no
season that was not.
The fiercest struggle was being waged in Washington.
The Congressional radicals had succeeded
in charging President Johnson with violation of the
Tenure of Office Act and other deeds of
misconduct. Johnson's impeachment trial had
begun in mid-March. How it would end no one could
say. A close outcome was predicted.
If the radicals won, they would have won it all.
Under bills they'd sponsored, military
governors enforced the law at bayonet point throughout
the South. Jephtha had watched the steady and
deliberate expansion of Republican power, and
at the same time, seen his worst fears about
manipulation of the black vote confirmed. His ardent
Republicanism was waning.
Closer to home, the so-called Erie War had
diverted the public's attention for months. For a
time, Fort Taylor -Jim Fisk's name for the
Jersey City hotel serving as the line's
temporary headquarters-had received national attention.
Daily press dispatches had provided thrilling
accounts of bulls and bears locked in combat. No
detail was ignored. Mr. Fisk's mistress was
interviewed. Members of his navy of thugs were
interviewed as they rowed up and down keeping watch for a
Vanderbilt flotilla. Anonymous "confidantes"
were interviewed,
and they described everything from the breakfast served
Mr. Gould in his suite to Dan Drew's
worsening tantrums; he feared affairs of his church
were foundering without him.
No Vanderbilt flotilla had appeared from
Manhattan. The Erie directors had escaped
the enemy's wrath, but at a cost of exiling themselves from
the nation's financial center. Finally Gould had
packed some "valises. Containing close to a
million in cash, it was reliably stated. He'd
hustled to Albany to end the stalemate by wooing the
Black Horse Cavalry. The Cavalry was a
group within the New York legislature which made
no secret of its willingness to sponsor and
support any desired, piece of legislation-so
long as the price was right.
The Commodore's men had rushed money to Albany
to counterattack. But Gould's ante was the highest.
An act permanently legalizing conversion of bonds
within the state passed both houses. Now Vanderbilt
faced a threat of endless issues of Erie stock-and a
skillful publicity campaign to which Gould had
turned his attention.
The newspapers had started carrying Gould's warnings
to the citizenry: A new predatory
animal was abroad in the land! Beware the
arch-monopolist! Jephtha couldn't recall hearing
the term before, but Vanderbilt made a vivid
prototype.
In the face of Gould's carefully orchestrated
campaign, one paper inexplicably reversed itself
and began to praise the Commodore. It took
Jephtha four days at the end of March to learn, through
a member of his congregation active in the Street, the
shocking reason The New York Union had
changed its editorial policy.
While not openly hostile to Vanderbilt, other
papers found Mr. Gould and his gratuitous warnings
to be good copy. Why, Gould cried, the villainous
Commodore would soon swallow so many firms and
rail sys
terns that his whim would dictate the very price of a
loaf of bread on the commonest table! Blithely
disregarding the source of the charges, some molders of
opinion were demanding that Vanderbilt's power be checked.
They never specified how it should be done.
Recently there'd been a development to indicate that
the peculiar war might be limping to an end. Faced
with the law legalizing the Duane Street printing
press, and already poorer by close to ten
million dollars, the Commodore was said to be sick
of the struggle. The member of Jephtha's congregation
with Street connections claimed Vanderbilt had
invited Dan Drew to call on him, to patch things
up. If that was true, the Commodore had run up the
white flag for perhaps the first time in his life.
The Erie War had its comic aspects, but the seething
struggle in the South had none. That tragic situation
was creating hatreds that would last a generations or more.
Northern politicians continued to flood into the
region lugging their despised carpetbags. With the
cooperation of the so-called scalawags-Southerners who
turned their backs on their own people in order to ally
themselves with the Northern power block-the invaders were
capturing control of state and local governments.
The military governors encouraged it.
Private citizens of the lately defeated
Confederacy had other battles on their hands. They
hurled charges of shiftlessness, impudence and outright
criminality at the freed blacks. Some had begun
a guerrilla war to cow the Negro.
The war's military organization was an innocently
conceived social society founded by a group of bored
veterans around Christmas, 1865. In a law
office in Pulaski, Tennessee, the
veterans had created a secret fraternity called
the Kuklos, after the Greek word for circle.
Someone had added dan to reflect the area's
Scotch-Irish heritage, and the whole thing had been
transmuted to a spreading network of night riders
whose aim was to discipline and sometimes punish blacks.
The clan was operating in most of the South these days.
The pranks of its members had taken on an ugly
tone. The illiteracy of most of the blacks was
played upon. A favorite trick of the colorfully
robed and hooded clansmen was to surround a Negro
cottage at night and, in sepulchral voices,
beg for drinks. The mounted visitors would claim
to be dead men who hadn't tasted water since perishing
at, say, Shiloh Church.
When water was offered, almost endless quantities of it
appeared to vanish magically through the mouth slits of the
hoods. Jephtha had read the trick was performed with a
tube and concealed rubber bag, but few of the victims
knew that-or were sufficiently calm to think it out.
One had died of a heart seizure early in
April. Even the former Confederate cavalryman,
Bedford Forrest, who at first had vigorously
supported the clan's activities, was
reportedly disenchanted by growing excesses.
Jephtha refrained from condemnation of all
Southerners, however. He felt the North should set
its own house in order first.
The scorned greenhorns pouring off the immigrant
boats from all sections of the Continent were being crowded
into slums and manipulated to the advantage of
industrialists, who used the threat of immigrant
labor to beat off the demands of trade unionists.
Gideon had allied himself with the unionists. He was
struggling to start a small organization in the Erie
yards. Jephtha respected and admired
Gideon's dedication. But he had no illusions about
his son's future. Gideon had merely exchanged
one war for another.
Blacks remained an even more despised minority in
the North. Jephtha needed to go no further than
Forty
fourth Street and Fifth Avenue to be reminded of
that.
Every time some pastoral chore took him by the spot,
he recalled four simmering days in July of
"63. Right after Gettysburg, New York had
fallen into anarchy as rioters-mostly poor
whites-protested the Federal draft.
Blacks had been beaten; hung from lamp
poles; had kerosene poured in their wounds, then lit.
Even children had not been spared. The Colored
Orphan Asylum at Forty-fourth Street and
Fifth had been surrounded by a howling mob of three
disthousand. Fortunately soldiers had arrived
to shepherd two hundred Negro children and the staff
to safety. Afterward the mob had rampaged through the
orphanage. One frightened black girl was discovered
still huddling beneath her bed. Jephtha would never forget
reading the account of how she'd been beaten to death.
Until such incidents were forever banished, the North
had no right to be sanctimonious.
The '63 holocaust had resulted in the burning of
more than a hundred buildings and in the deaths of as many
as two thousand civilians, soldiers, and police.
No one would ever know the exact total. Once
Federal troops had quelled the worst of the
violence, a pundit had jeered, "This is a nice
town to call itself a center of civilization!" Five
years later, Jephtha wearily decided the same
could be said of the nation. The great war had won freedom
for the Negro, but there were few signs it had won
equality, or even acceptance.
In view of his calling, Jephtha was always ashamed
when he felt so pessimistic. He tried
to remember that no era in human history had been
free of the passions fed by ignorance and greed.
Certainly Christ's had not.
But the nation had been created to offer a shining hope of
liberty; justice; change. Occasionally Jephtha
felt progress in America was unconscionably
slow, if not altogether absent. Sometimes he wondered
whether Jeremiah had gone to his grave for nothing.
With his faith and his wife Molly to help him,
Jephtha had learned to accept the pain of realizing his
youngest son was gone. Every six months or so he still
dispatched a letter to a friend in Washington and requested
another search of the Federal casualty records.
No new information had ever been forthcoming. The day and
place of Jeremiah Kent's dying were apparently
forever hidden. Jephtha only prayed the death had not
been meaningless.
In brighter moments, he knew it was not. The slave
system was gone forever. The country was expanding at an
unprecedented rate, and a much more worthwhile war was
being won in the West. The Central Pacific and the
Union Pacific were annihilating time and distance.
In mid-April the Union Pacific had reached
its highest elevation above the sea, Sherman's
Summit at 8,248 feet, and had begun
laying track on the Wyoming downgrade.
Out there, in land abounding in the free space in which men
could build new futures, thousands were doing
exactly that. Michael had done that with his
mercantile enterprises. His letters said he had found
deep satisfaction. He didn't use the word
peace, but Jephtha knew that was what he meant.
caret
Perhaps Matt too had found his version of the same thing.
His enthusiastic letters, crammed with sketches, said
he and his wife Dolly were enjoying their splendid
poverty in Paris. Matt's surprising inclination
toward drawing comwas finally receiving some direction through
exposure to great museums and the ferment of the city's
art colony.
Spring weather usually banished the worst of
Jephha's pessimism, and it was no exception this
year, even though he had lately been forced
to resort to spectacles for reading, and his knuckles
and knees hurt a great deal of the time. When he
heard an item of gossip
from the Wall Street attorney who belonged to his
church, his spirits positively soared.
He had resigned himself about purchasing Kent and
Son, Boston. It struck him as an
unattainable goal.
But something else he coveted just as shamelessly might
not be unattainable. The Monday morning after he
heard that, he set out for Tarrytown.
Outside the little office, sunlight glowed through
rustling trees. "Yes, sir," the agent said.
"We are the authorized representatives."
He cast a dubious eye at Jephtha's rumpled
black suit. "It's quite expensive."
"But it is for sale?"
"Most definitely. The owner has been confined
to St. Luke's Hospital in the city, as perhaps you
know."
Jephtha nodded.
"A ruffianly attack by street thieves, we've
been told."
Jephtha said nothing. He'd heard the same thing in
March.
"Mr. Kent is paralyzed," the agent went on.
"He may never regain the use of his lower body.
He is divesting himself of several properties."
"Does your price include the furnishings?"
"It does."
"Everything? Every last book? Every item of
bric-a-brac?"
The agent frowned. "May I ask why that's so
important to you, Mister-?"
"Kent."
He said it quietly and watched for the reaction, which was
pronounced. He continued:
"I don't want my name-mentioned. That's a condition
of my offer. If you violate it, you've lost a
commission."
"Are you related to the owner?"
"Distantly. I don't wish to be identified with the
sale for personal reasons. Attorneys will act
in my stead. I'll meet the price, whatever it
is.."
The agent had a stunned look.
"But only if all furnishings are left intact.
Are you willing to proceed on those terms?"
An unctuous smile curled the agent's mouth.
"Of course. Buyers in this price category are
not numerous. I'm sure everything can be arranged to your
satisfaction."
in
On the seventeenth of May, Mr. Patrick
Willet, contractor, sat in his wagon in the
driveway of Kentland. It was a brilliant
morning, breezy and full of the sweet
smells of living earth and foliage. Just the preceding
day, the eleventh article of impeachment had failed
to gain the needed two-thirds majority in the
Senate. The margin of defeat had been one vote.
Mr. Willet wasn't thinking of that sensational
news today, though. He was in a state bordering on
euphoria. The reason was his prospective
client, the estate's new and somewhat unusual
owner-a shabby-looking but clearly wealthy minister from
the city.
The gray-haired cleric's last name was the same as
that of Kentland's former tenant. Willet had mentioned
the coincidence but had received no explanation. He
didn't press for one. The potential fee was too
important.
The Reverend Kent had contacted him a week ago.
Willet had eagerly agreed to drive him out from
Tarry-town when he took possession of the
property. He was inside doing just that. The front
doors were open on darkness and a smell of dust.
Mr. Willet cut a piece of tobacco from his
plug and
slipped it up next to his gum. It might be a
while until he was summoned. He'd gladly
wait. He'd wait till judgment for an
opportunity to earn the huge sum which would accompany
a major alteration.
He was startled when the Reverend Kent appeared in
less than five minutes.
Kent was carrying the portmanteau he'd taken into the
house. It bulged now. And, curiosity of
curiosities, the preacher had a scabbarded sword
and an old rifle under his arm.
Kent put the carpetbag on the drive, then the
rifle. He walked from the shadow of the portico
to the-sunlight. Almost reverently, he drew the
sword a third of the way out of the brass-tipped
scabbard.
Willet scrambled down and peered over the other
man's shoulder. The sword had a handsome ribbed
grip and a pommel shaped like a bird's head.
Kent noted the contractor's interest. He raised
the sword a little higher.
"It's a French infantry briquet. Given to the
founder of our family by the Marquis de
Lafayette, before the Revolution."
"Handsome," Willet murmured. Kent slid the
blade back into the scabbard and as he did, the hilt
caught the sun and shot off a star of light. The
minister's dark eyes gleamed.
Fellow's crying! the astonished contractor said
to himself. There was certainly no accounting for the queerness of
parsons.
That was demonstrated again as Kent carefully laid the
sword, rifle and portmanteau in the back of the
wagon, then inserted a key in Kentland's front
door.
"Here, Reverend!" Willet exclaimed. "Aren't
we going to have a look inside?"
"No, Mr. Willet. I have the things I came
for, with the exception of one painting in the drawing room.
That will have to be crated and removed later. The other
mementos
are going to my oldest son. He's in a line of work
I doubt you'd approve," Kent added with a smile.
"You being the proprietor of a business, I mean."
"What's your boy do?"
"He's a labor organizer."
"You're right, I don't approve," Willet
shot back. "Fellows like that upset the
equilibrium of society."
"Society needs upsetting every generation or so,
Mr. Willet. Peacefully, of course.
Otherwise things that need changing are accepted without
question."
Willet sniffed. "If you don't mind my asking,
sir, how did your son become involved in such
radical work?"
"He's not a radical, I assure you. Perhaps
he'll become one. He'll certainly be called
one. To answer your question, let's say a passion for
causes runs in the family."
Willet was mystified when Kent glanced at the
house and added, "Certain branches of the family."
The contractor wanted to enlighten Kent with more of his
views about the union movement. But he was beholden
to the man, so he changed the subject:
"Well, sir, if we're to examine the place, you
oughtn't to lock up."
Kent climbed to the seat. "You can give me your
estimate on the way back to Tarrytown."
"Reverend, I can't estimate repairs without
seeing-was
"Wait," Kent interrupted. "I'm not hiring you
to make repairs."
Willet's brow shot up. "But I thought-was
The minister shook his head. He studied the sun
drenched facade, smiling in a curious way.
"I never said I wanted alterations, or that I was
planning to live here. I'm going to pay you
to tear Kentland down."
"Tear it down?"
"Yes, Mr. Willet. Every last stone."
Jeremiah,
unable to outrun
his pursuers-or his legend ...
Gideon,
struggling to reunite
the sundered family ...
Boyle the merchant king and
Matthew the self-exiled artist . .
their lives, and those of
their women,
are forever changed
by the turbulence of the nation's
centennial era
in
The Lawless
Volume VII
of
The American Bicentennial Series
Afterword
Apologies are due to readers of this Series for the
unusually long delay between this volume and the preceding
one. The summer of '76 brought a
twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and an extended
vacation that probably should have been spent at the
typewriter but wasn't. Contrary to rumors that
continue to drift in from parts of the country as widely
separated as Maine, the Florida Keys, and
Big Sur, California, the author is (as of
now, anyway), alive, well, and working to complete
the next book in much less time than it took to bring
you this one.
Several people who have contributed to the success of the
Series have yet to be mentioned in these notes. So
here's a hearty thank-you to John Rutledge, the
gentleman who so capably directs the Pyramid
national sales staff. John's not only a first
class marketing man, but a fine companion on
autographing trips; his good humor can even turn
a bumpy ride on a jammed Eastern shuttle
into a pleasant experience.
Belated thanks are also owed to former Pyramid art
director James McIntyre, who supervised the
cover concept for the Series, and to Herb Tauss, the
talented artist who created it and continues to execute
it so beautifully, book after book.
About the Author
JOHN JAKES was born in Chicago.
He is a graduate of DePauw University,
and took his M.a. in literature at Ohio
State. He sold his first short story during his
second year of college, and his first book twelve
months later. Since then, he has published more
than 200 short stories and over 50
books-chiefly suspense, nonfiction for young people and
most recently, science fiction. He has also
authored six popular historical novels under his
Jay Scotland pseudonym. His books have
appeared in translation from Europe to Japan.
Originally intending to become an actor, Mr.
Jakes' continuing interest in the theater has
manifested itself in four plays and the books and
lyrics for five musicals, all of which are
currently in print and being performed by stock and
amateur groups around the U.s. The author is
married, the father of four children, and lists among his
organizations the Authors Guild, the
Dramatists Guild, and Science Fiction
Writers of America. In 1976 he was awarded
an honorary doctorate by Wright State
University for his contribution to the nation's
Bicentennial observance.
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