Last of the Dixie Heroes (27 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

Roy had a gun but no bullets, no bayonet neither—
neither,
there was his ancestor thinking now, right with him in his head. No bayonet because his weapon, ancestral instructions carved on the stock, was a carbine; he knew that now, wouldn’t let the cause down through ignorance again. No shooting or stabbing possible, but Roy did have his strong body, even stronger with these fresh new springs of ferocity rising up within him, and he had the knowledge, so late arriving, of what he was born, if not bred, to be: a fighting man.

He came down off the slope, tore down it really, his speed almost sickening although strangely silent, all nature covering for him, and into the apple trees in back of the plateau, trees planted by his ancestor for the comfort of his descending line, their nourishment, even their concealment, if necessary. The clear dawn light made the tiny new apples gleam like hard painted decorations, bright red. The color encouraged him.

Roy ran through the slave quarters, into the Mountain House. Through the hole in the wall where the front door had stood, Roy caught sight of the Yankees beyond the collapsed tents, standing over the Confederates, Confederates on their knees. On their knees!

No one saw Roy. That meant he had not only his raw strength, but the element of surprise as well, an element he hadn’t considered much in his life, knew only from the receiving end. This was going to be much better. He burst out of the Mountain House, his gun gripped by the barrel,
death
on its stock, so ready, so able, never more so, felt a sudden sharp pain across one shin, and went spinning through the air. Then came a tumbling glimpse of two Yankees crouched behind him, holding a thin line across the doorway, and the ground rose fast to meet him, like the beginning of some explosion from deep down, one of Ezekiel’s mountain forces on the move. Roy tried to get his hands out front, protect his head, but couldn’t, what with trying to protect the gun too. Then he was seeing two moons again. Before he could work them back down to one, or none since it was daylight, blue bodies were swarming over him.

Roy made them pay, one with his elbow, another with his fist, and then he was on his feet, swinging his weapon so hard it whistled in the air like a whip. The Yankees all backed off, eyes widening—Vandam too, his nose swollen and discolored from Chickamauga—as Roy stood on the threshold of the Mountain House.

“Get off my land,” he said. His voice echoed off the mountain. At least, he thought it did, and was listening so intently to the echo, like another one of those forces on the loose, the mountain and he speaking as one, that he almost missed softer sounds behind him. He started to turn, heard a bad noise inside his skull.

They sat outside the Mountain House, blue and gray together, except blue sat in the shade of the apple trees and gray in the sun; a hot white sun, the first real hot one of the year, directly overhead. Roy was very thirsty, conscious at first only of that and the sun sucking him dry, his body the water supply for a demanding master; then, after a while, conscious of blue and gray together, outside the Mountain House. He was wondering whether the war was over when he noticed that everyone in gray was tied up, arms behind the back, him included.

Roy looked around. Things came into focus: the stubborn little tuft of hair, already growing back on Rhett’s head; a drying-up trickle of blood running from one of Sonny’s ears down his neck; Lee’s jacket, the top two or three buttons dangerously open; a variety of expressions on the faces of the Irregulars, all of which Roy had seen before at halftime in football locker rooms whenever they were getting their asses whipped. He knew that was where he had seen these looks, but that world was distant, as though he’d come across it only in books. This was the real thing, when you started to realize you might lose not a game, but everything, when the enemy wasn’t the Gators or the Yellowjackets, but Sherman and Grant. When that happened, some realized and quit, like Dibrell; some got bewildered, like Gordo; some kept calculating odds and strategies, like Jesse; some couldn’t be read, like Lee; some didn’t bother to realize and wouldn’t quit, like Sonny Junior; some did realize and wouldn’t quit, like himself.

Captain Peterschmidt came forward, crossing the line between shadow and sun. His muttonchops had a rusty tinge in the light. “Chickamauga was a fluke,” he said, hand on his sword. “Guess you rebs know that by now.” Was he talking about Lee’s successful tent attack and Roy’s subsequent rescue, or Longstreet’s breakthrough at the Brotherton cabin? Made no difference to Roy: either way, this Yankee was saying they couldn’t fight, and that was a damned lie. Roy tested the rope binding his wrists, a thick, bristly rope, the knots tight, and got nowhere.

“Under the rules of warfare, you are all prisoners of the United States,” Peterschmidt said. “Don’t be alarmed. There are no Andersonvilles where we come from.”

“And no Fort Pillows either,” said a Yankee corporal.

“Maybe there should be,” said the Yankee lieutenant Roy had tangled with up the slope, his eyes, the one that was open, anyway, on Roy. The private beside him, with a bloody cloth around his head, started to nod, winced, and stopped.

“And since transportation of prisoners would be difficult in this case,” Peterschmidt said, “it’s our intention to take only one, as insurance for your future good conduct.”

Jesse got to his feet, not easily, his hands behind his back.

“Who said anything about standing up?” said Vandam, coming up beside Peterschmidt.

Jesse ignored him. “I’m the ranking officer.”

“Speak,” said Peterschmidt.

“What good conduct are you talking about?” said Jesse.

Peterschmidt and Vandam towered over Jesse. “What’s your name, Lieutenant?” Peterschmidt said.

“Lieutenant Jesse Moses, CSA,” Jesse said. “We met at Chickamauga.”

“This is different from Chickamauga,” Peterschmidt said. “You’ve ruined it by your usual indiscipline.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When we found out about your presence here we thought it was a positive development,” Peterschmidt said. “We’ve been hoping for something like this for a long time. But you go too far.”

“You started it.”

“You did.”

From where he sat, Roy could hear them pretty well, but he had trouble following, getting stuck on
when we found out about your presence
. He stopped right there. How did they find out? Someone must have told them, a spy or a traitor. Then Roy remembered:
forces on the move
. Why hadn’t he thought of military forces first thing? And like a fool he’d felt those headlights on his back, when all along Ezekiel had been working for the enemy; a spy then, and not a traitor, although Roy felt betrayed.

“It was you,” Peterschmidt was saying.

“You,” said Jesse.

They glared at each other in the hot sun, patches of sweat spreading in the armpits of their uniforms. Roy thought he could hear the waterfall.

“But now it’s over,” Peterschmidt said. “And to make sure our campaign ends without any more of this, we’ll take one prisoner with us, ensuring your good conduct, prisoner to be released at the conclusion tomorrow night.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jesse said. “You have my word.”

Sonny Junior raised his bloody head. “Fuck you,” he said, looking at no one in particular.

“Sergeant Vandam,” said Peterschmidt. “Choose a likely prisoner.”

Choose me, you son of a bitch. That voice deep inside Roy: it had some plan already.

Vandam walked down the Confederate line, all of them sitting in the sun by the Mountain House, hands tied behind their backs. He looked at Gordo, who tried to meet his gaze but blinked, then Dibrell, who didn’t even try; went by Rhett without looking at him; paused at Lee.

“Here’s a pretty little reb,” Vandam said. He looked more closely, his eyes wandering down the opening at the top of the jacket. The expression on his face changed. He bent down, reached his hand in that opening, explored around. Something in Roy went boiling red; in another part of himself, the temperature was much lower. The cool part recorded the simple fact that Vandam was dead, as of that moment.

“Vandam,” said Peterschmidt. “What the hell are you doing?”

“He’s got—”

“There’ll be no robbery of prisoners.”

“But—”

“I gave you an order.”

“Sir.”

Vandam moved on to Sonny. Roy had one glimpse of Lee’s face—distorted by whatever was going on inside—before Vandam blocked his view.

“This here’s the one caused most of the trouble,” Vandam said, standing over Sonny.

“We don’t want him.”

“No, sir. But can I clean him up a little?”

“If you’re quick about it.”

“I’ll be quick.” Vandam’s voice was low and throaty, like a dog getting aroused about something. He took a knife off his belt, got hold of Sonny’s long hair, jerked it all back, hacked it off with one stroke.

Sonny made a roaring sound, tried to bull his way up. Roy didn’t really see what happened to Sonny after that because he was up too, butting at Vandam like an animal. Then there was blue everywhere and he was back down. Blue turned to red. Roy stared up at Vandam through a red haze.

Vandam was watching him, seemed to watch him for a long time. Roy could see Vandam making the prisoner decision in his eyes, knew he was going to get his way, that he would be the one; a decision Vandam would regret. Vandam gave him a little smile, turned, and said: “We’ll take the kid.”

“The kid?” Peterschmidt said.

Roy wasn’t sure he’d heard right until he noticed everyone looking at Rhett. Rhett’s eyes were on only one person, his father. He was trying not to speak, trying to keep something inside, but he couldn’t.

“Dad,” he said.

Roy strained against the rope, useless.

A mocking voice rose from the Yankees in the shade: “Da-ad.” It was the other boy, Vandam’s son.

Rhett’s head whipped around. The boys’ gazes locked on each other. Vandam’s son got up, came out of the shade, stopped a few feet from Rhett.

“Da-ad.”

“Captain Peterschmidt,” Jesse said, “control this boy.”

“I take no orders from you,” Peterschmidt said.

“Your drummer boy’s our prisoner,” said Vandam.

Gordo spoke up. “Ever heard of kidnapping?”

Vandam gave Gordo a kick on the sole of his boot, very light. “No one mentioned kidnapping,” he said. “We’re taking a prisoner, as we got every right to do.”

Roy knew he was right; he just wanted it to be him, and Rhett last of all. Gordo hung his head. Vandam gave him another kick, even lighter.

Peterschmidt licked his lips. He glanced at Gordo, then Rhett, motioned for Vandam. They moved away together, Peterschmidt saying something that made Vandam scowl at first but smile by the time he finished. They came back.

“We’ll offer you an alternative, Lieutenant,” Peterschmidt said.

“To what?” said Jesse.

“To taking the boy prisoner, taking anyone prisoner,” said Peterschmidt. “Instead we’ll settle this once and for all, agreeing to abide by the result whatever it is and cease all hostilities after.”

“Settle how?” said Jesse.

“In unarmed hand-to-hand combat between champions from each side.”

“I’ll take any three of you,” Sonny Junior said.

“And since there’s no point in anyone getting hurt, now that the campaign is nearly over,” Peterschmidt said, “we’ll elect the drummer boys as champions.”

“Out of the question,” Jesse said.

“Then you force us back to the prisoner alternative,” said Peterschmidt.

“Let the boy fight,” Sonny Junior said. “He’ll beat him good for us.”

“Something like this happened,” Peterschmidt said.

Jesse, about to repeat what he’d said, paused. “Spotsylvania Courthouse,” he said. “But it wasn’t drummer boys.”

“Close enough,” Peterschmidt said.

Jesse was silent. Roy thought he heard the beating of heavy wings. Jesse turned to him. “What about it?”

There were three possible answers:
no; it’s up to Rhett; yes
. Roy said, “Yes.”

“Yes?” said Jesse.

“You heard right, rabbi,” Sonny said.

“Shut up, Sonny,” Roy said.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Jesse said.

“How?” said Sonny.

Jesse ignored him. “We agree,” he said to Peterschmidt.

“And you’ll abide by the result, as an officer and a gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lee said.

Everyone looked puzzled.

“You haven’t asked the boy,” Lee said.

Rhett stood up. “I’ll fight,” he said, eyes on Roy.

A Yankee cut the rope binding Rhett’s wrists. A strange moment for the memory that came then to Roy: the hospital bracelet around one of those wrists, the day Rhett was born.

They stood in a circle on the plateau, blue with their backs to the sun, gray, hands still bound behind their backs, with the sun in their eyes. The two boys, stripped to the waist, faced each other inside the circle. Roy forgot about his thirst and the pain in his head, was barely aware of the faces, sweating and intense, of the watching soldiers, had eyes only for the two boys. He saw things he didn’t like, some of them things he maybe should have seen before: how Vandam’s boy was a head taller than his, perhaps an inch or two more than that; how Vandam’s boy had a thick neck, thick wrists, muscles under his baby fat; how he might even have been a little older, certainly more developed, with hair under his arms and a few sprigs already showing on his chest. Rhett looked scrawny, as though he’d actually lost weight since moving up north, what with his ribs showing, and those knuckle-shaped bones in his shoulders more prominent than before. Vandam’s son’s hands were already curled into fists; Rhett’s hung stiffly at his sides, shaking slightly. All he had going for him was that wild tuft of hair sticking straight up.

“Get this over with, Griff,” Vandam said.

His son nodded and swung his fist, a long, slow, looping punch that Rhett had plenty of time to block or sidestep or lean away from, but he did none of those things, didn’t move at all, not even raising one of those shaking hands. The blow caught him flush on the side of the head, made a sound like a fastball smacking into a catcher’s mitt.