Deserter (25 page)

Jake handed over the mug. He rose and walked to the window. The blond young girl raced around the edge of the house, screeching, running for all she was worth, clutching at her dress to keep from stepping on
the hem and tumbling. A few feet behind her one of her brothers was in pursuit, a yard-long milk snake writhing from his fist, his smile broad enough and bright enough to outshine the sun. Jake smiled at the children and then was suddenly disoriented, almost dizzy. The images of him and his friend Apollo, the son of his family's cook, chasing Apollo's sister, Aphrodite, across the pasture grass with a fat swamp toad, washed away the scene outside the window of Galvin's house. Neither black had a last name; most slave owners named children born on their plantations whimsically, with about as much forethought as they'd give to naming a litter of mongrel puppies. Aphrodite and Apollo had been Jake's best friends through his childhood, and their mother's sister had been his nanny. They'd still been with his father when Jake left for war. He had no idea where they were now—if they'd abandoned the plantation after the Emancipation Proclamation or opted to stay with the elder Sinclair. Abraham Lincoln's five pages of handwritten words, declaring “that all persons held as slaves are, and henceforth shall be, free,” tolled the end of the Southern livelihood and way of life, according to Confederacy sympathizers.

Jake had never felt that his friends were chattel—property—and, actually, hadn't given the idea much thought until very recently. It was simply the way things were in the South—perhaps as things were supposed to be. Now he wasn't at all sure about the institution of African slavery. It was difficult for him to imagine his father's slaves taking care of themselves outside the plantation, away from a master who provided them with everything they had—food, housing,
medical care, even clothing. But, still, didn't a black man deserve a shot at freedom? And what about the Negro babies being birthed now? Should they grow up under the lifetime yoke of—

“Jake? Where are you? Here's your coffee. You look dazed, son.”

Jake took the mug. “Drifting a bit, I guess,” he said. He sipped at his cup. The heady scent of whiskey reached him even before the aroma of the coffee in which it was mixed. “Just the thing,” he said, following Galvin back to their seats.

Lou lit a cigar and drew on it until clouds of fragrant bluish smoke surrounded him. “Cigar, Jake?” he asked.

“No—no, thanks. This Irish coffee'll do me just fine.”

Lou settled more comfortably in his armchair. “So,” he said after a long moment, “what can we do—from a military standpoint, I mean?”

Jake didn't need to think before speaking. The answer to that question had been in his mind ever since his ride back from the gunfight that morning. “I don't see that we have but a single option, Lou, unless all of you want things to stay just as they've been since Mott took over.”

“You know we don't want that, Jake. That's why all of us are here, armed, posting guards and all. What's your plan?”

Jake drank half his coffee and lowered the cup. “It's not much of a plan quite yet,” he said, “but I think I have an idea.”

“And that idea is what?”

“I'm approaching the whole thing from—like you said—a military standpoint. If two armies were in the
same basic situation we have here, the one feeling the pressure would act quickly and decisively.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “I say we attack Fairplay and shoot Mott's ass off right there in town.”

The whole goddamn operation was coming apart.

Mott had the entire town of Fairplay tucked securely behind bulwarks of huge, fantastically long tree trunks that ran, unbroken and straight as a schoolmarm's ruler, the full length of the town. The cannons—four-inchers and some with maws double that—were firing canisters and grapeshot, tearing gaping holes in both men and the attack line Jake had formed. Now the outlaws were jamming long lengths of heavy chain into the barrels of their artillery, the chains twisting sinuously, strangely slowly and gracefully in the air, cutting men in half as easily as a sharp scythe shears ripe wheat. The horrible whine of the chains through the air was just as Sinclair had heard it at the bloodbath at Antietam—an eerie, high-pitched tone that was far more frightening than the reports of the cannons themselves.

A hot-air observation balloon drifted in the wind currents above Fairplay, a flagman directing Mott's artillery. Jake squinted at it carefully through the smoke and then
fell back, stunned, aghast. Uriah Toole, still headless from Pickett's charge at Gettysburg but somehow clearly identifiable, pointed his red flag directly at Sinclair. Billy Galvin, a noose snug around his neck, trailing a short length of rope, was jacking rounds into his rifle, firing nonstop. One of his slugs took Lou Galvin in the forehead and Lou's lifeless body spun—cartwheeled—off into the prairie like a tumbleweed in a stiff wind.

Jake fed a cartridge into the breech of his Sharps, drew a breath, and placed his sights on the chest of an outlaw behind the crank of a Gattling gun. Jake eased back on the trigger and tiny bits of blowback gunpowder stung his forehead and cheek. The slug lumbered out of the end of the octagonal barrel, hesitated for a long moment in the air, and then made an abrupt turn, picked up speed and velocity, and blew a massive hole into the chest of the little boy who'd been chasing his sister with the milk snake. The outlaws were using what looked like a medieval catapult of some sort, hurling liquid sheets of white-hot molten . . .

Sinclair writhed in his bed, the light cover wrapped around him as tightly as a leather restraint, his face, his chest drenched in sweat. He fought to a sitting position, gasping, the narrow bed rocking crazily as he battled against the horrors of his nightmare. A gentle shaft of moonlight opaquely lighting the room brought Jake to his senses. His breath rasped in his throat as if he'd run full-out far too long and his heart banged frantically in his chest. Sucking in air, almost sobbing, he unwrapped the sodden sheet from his upper body, tossed it aside, and made his way on trembling legs to the window. He leaned forward, nose touching the cold glass, supporting his upper body with his hands
on the sill. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but the night was still deep-dark and there was no hint of light at the eastern horizon, not even the vague pastels of false dawn.

A single lantern shone from window to window in the barn as the man carrying it moved about inside the structure. As Sinclair watched, another light moved from the far side of the barn to join the one he'd seen first. A horse in one of the stalls nickered and, in a moment, another stomped steel-shod hooves on the wooden floor and answered with a low whinny. A pair of men moved from the darkness into the scant light in front of the barn, slid the overhead door open, and went inside, leaving the gap open. Both men had rifles over their shoulders.

Jake took his hands from the sill and stood straight before the window. His breathing was regular now—almost normal—and the light-headed trembling sensation was gone. It was chilly in the room and his sweat became a clammy blanket. He used the shaving towel from the hook on the side of the dresser to rub his chest and face dry, scratched a lucifer, and lit his lamp. The water in the basin was cold as he slapped it on his face and neck. He whipped thick suds in the saving cup and worked the Ohio Brand razor a few sweeping strokes against the buffalo-leather strop Lou had provided. Jake had missed the morning ritual of shaving during the time he was drifting, although at the time he hadn't realized it. Since being at Galvin's place he'd been shaving daily. It was a good way to start a day. As he was wiping away lather from his neck his hand brushed against locks of hair that now reached damned near his shoulders. He gathered a thick
clump and sheared off a good three inches, and then worked his way around the back of his head, the Swedish steel blade parting the hair cleanly, effortlessly. He pulled on his denim pants and then his boots. He buttoned his shirt and shrugged on his vest. Last, he buckled on his holster and Colt, tying the holster low on his right leg. His fingers moved around his gun belt, assuring himself that each loop contained a fresh cartridge, although he'd checked at least once the night before. There was a seam of yellowish light at the horizon the next time Sinclair glanced out the window. His Sharps had been leaning against the wall next to his bed. He picked up the sack of .54-caliber cartridges from the floor next to the stock of the rifle and distributed them among his vest and pants pockets, checked to be positive that there was a round in the chamber and the safety lock in place, and left his room carrying his rifle in one hand and his lantern in the other. The light created sharp-edged shadows in the hall in front of him. As he passed Lou's bedroom he saw that the door was open and that the room was empty.

The cheerful aroma of brewing coffee reached Sinclair before he started down the stairs, as did the hazy light from the kitchen, which grew stronger as he walked through the parlor. Lou Galvin sat at the table, a mug of coffee in his hand. He nodded toward the pot on the woodstove. “Help yourself,” he said. “But be careful an'drink it slow—otherwise it'll melt your teeth down to nubs.” He grinned. “I may have made it the slightest bit strong.”

Sinclair took a mug from the sideboard and filled it. He sipped. “No stronger than, say, a cup of lye and
catamount piss—but it tastes just fine.” He sat across from Lou.

“So,” Galvin said. “Today's the day.” He shook his head. “To be honest, I'm not sure if I've been dreading or anticipating this—maybe a bit of both.”

“The men are ready, Lou. They're spoiling for a brawl.”

“I know that. But I always come back to this: They're not soldiers, not fighters. Before you got here, it was the rare man among them who'd fired a single shot in anger. They don't know what a real battle is, don't know any more about tactics or strategy than a newborn kitten.”

“They don't need to. It's a simple, straightforward plan. All they have to do is shoot outlaws from the wagons. Those slabs of hardwood we muscled into place will stop pretty much anything Mott has to throw at us.”

“Maybe. I sure hope so.” He paused. “I'm still not sure about cutting the horses loose, Jake. Seems like burning bridges behind us. If we do need to turn tail . . . well . . . I just don't know.”

Sinclair stood from the table and refilled his coffee. He carried the pot from the stove and topped off Galvin's mug, then returned the pot. “It's just like I've been saying, Lou—it takes four good horses to haul each of those three freighters. There's going to be a whole lot of lead flying and at the end of the battle—no matter who wins—we'd have twelve horses bleeding out on Main Street. Those animals are trained and trusted, Lou, and the men need them on their farms and in their businesses. They'd be awful hard to replace.”

“I suppose that's true. Still . . . I just don't . . .” Galvin let the phrase die.

“There's another point, Lou, and I think you know it as well as I do. Turning back isn't an option. We either kill damn near all of Mott's gang or we die trying. If we lose, those scum won't leave a single man breathing. They'll finish off every last one of us just like the blue bellies did at . . .” Sinclair stopped himself and stared into his coffee.

“At Shiloh? Second Manasas?” Galvin asked quietly. After a moment he said, “Your allegiance—where you came from before you showed up here—hasn't been much of a mystery to me, Jake. It doesn't make a damned bit of difference. You threw in with us and that's what counts.”

Nervous, quick laughter sounded from the yard. Sinclair stood and walked to the window. The barn was lit up now and clusters of men stood about in front of the wide-open front doors. Inside Jake could see the first of the three freighters with the board-length slabs of two-inch-thick hardwood with the bark still in place serving as armor. The cigar box–sized gun slots were like undersized portholes on a passenger ship. Jake turned back to his friend. “The ten men who rode out last night were the best we have,” he said. “The element of surprise will make a big difference. You can count on that.”

“I am counting on that. We're all counting on that.” He sighed and stood. “Let's get to it, Jake.” He held out his hand. Jake took it. They shook hands as if they were sealing a business deal neither of them was particularly pleased about.

“. . . enough ammunition in each of the wagons to put twenty rounds into each of those outlaws and still have
lots left over. Just keep what we've discussed and planned for in mind and we'll win this thing. Questions? Anybody have something to say?” Jake strode back and forth in front of the group of men in the barn, holding the eyes of one and then another, and another. The fact that they were in a group rather than clusters of three or four or five men boded well, Sinclair thought. Whether or not they realized it, the men had come together as a united force. Their determination to crush the enemy was all but palpable in the air.

One of the farmers raised a hand. “Got me a question an' something to say all at once,” he called to Jake. “Y'all gonna have your good friend with you this morning?”

Sinclair's confusion showed on his face. “Good friend? I . . .”

“Sure—your good friend Mr. Sharps! If'n you will, we ain't got a thing to worry about.” The laughter and hooting that rolled through the men was far more than the lame joke called for, more of a function of nervousness than actual humor. Jake played along with it, encouraging the release of some of the tension. “I'll tell you boys what,” he said. “You'll hear my good friend talking today—his voice is some louder than those peashooters you're carrying.” He waited until his troops settled down. “One more thing,” he called to them. “Take a good look at me and what I'm wearing. I'll be out and on foot a good bit of the time, between the wagons and so forth. Try not to shoot me, OK? It'd ruin my whole damned day.” The men laughed again, shifting on their feet, cuffing one another on the shoulder, their eyes gleaming in the lantern light with a combination of bloodlust and trepidation. Jake waited for
complete quiet and then raised his Sharps over his head as if it were a command sword.