My Name's Not Friday (21 page)

I duck back down into the bushes and crawl the opposite way. If I can reach the edge of the field then there’s a path that will lead me safely to the cabins, so I keep my head down and run crouching till another volley of shots forces me to the ground. A movement behind me makes me turn and I spot someone coming through the bushes. It’s a man, crawling towards me on his knees. ‘Samuel?’ Hubbard whispers loudly. ‘Samuel, is that you?’

‘Hubbard!’ I hiss at him. ‘Hubbard, I’m over here.’

That big man comes crawling to me and I see straight away that he has no chains. ‘Peighton arrived at the house to fetch you.’ His big brown eyes are alive with urgency. ‘He’s gonna take you to Alabama if we don’t get you away.’

‘But he’s over there, Hubbard. I just seen him firing on the Yankee soldiers.’

‘I saw him too. That’s lucky for us if he’s caught in a fight, but we got to go now. Come on.’

He makes to crawl away, but another volley of shots rings out and it’s close enough for us to hear the buckshot flicking through the cotton.

I hold onto his wrist. ‘What about the Yankees? What about Celia and Sarah?’

Hubbard has droplets of sweat sitting gently on his beard and he runs a hand across his chin. ‘Don’t worry about the Yankees. They ain’t after us. Celia and Sarah are safe. It was you I was worried for. Come on and follow me. We got to go.’

Hubbard hears them the same time I do cos his eyes flick
quickly to the right of me and we catch a glimpse of the soldiers coming through the bushes. A line of ’em about fifteen feet from us, all crouched low with their rifles held out in front of ’em. I see their blue tunics and I think we must be caught. Perhaps Hubbard does too, cos he puts his hands up above his head and calls out, ‘Don’t shoot! We just a couple of slaves caught out in the field. Please, sir. We don’t want no trouble.’

He stands up slowly, raising his head above the cotton so they can see who he is, and I rise on one knee, intending to do the same. Three quick shots ring out from across the field and Hubbard falls hard against me, knocking me to the ground and I land underneath him. He’s pinning me down with his full weight on my chest so that I have to turn my head to the side. ‘Hubbard!’ I kick my feet, scrabbling to get a hold so I can get out from under him. ‘Hubbard?’

The Yankee footsteps are coming through the cotton so I stay very still, thinking they might shoot me if they see me alive. Hubbard’s so heavy it’s all I can do to take a breath. ‘Hubbard?’ I whisper his name, whisper it barely loud enough to hear it myself.

I freeze as the boots come past me and hug the big man close, hoping he’ll cover me while the Yankees pass. Above me the sky is bright blue. A butterfly lands on a boll above our heads and there’s a drop of blood, bright red upon the white flower. The last one of ’em looks down at me. He can see I’m alive and watching him and he puts a finger to his lips, meaning for me to stay quiet, then he kneels up on one knee and fires his rifle. The smell of burnt powder and smoke wafts over me as he crouches back down and moves off into the field.

Once they’re gone I manage to free one of my hands. I take
hold of Hubbard’s arm and roll him off me. He’s face down in the dirt and I pull him round onto his back. He’s bleeding from a wound up near his shoulder, but he’s still alive. He looks scared though, like the rabbit we found in the trap, and just like then I don’t know what to do. I watch the blood pooling on his shirt and I’m taking short quick breaths just the same as his. ‘What do I do, Hubbard?’ His eyelids begin to close and I shake his shoulder, trying to wake him up, all the time rocking on my heels and whining. ‘How do I make it stop, Hubbard? Tell me how to make it stop!’

I don’t think he can speak. I hold his head in my hands to keep it off the ground. I should drag him from the field, that’s what I think, so I put his head down gently, then, taking hold of his arms, I pull ’em till his shirt lifts halfway up his chest and the buttons come out of their holes, but I can’t get him to move hardly an inch.

‘Get out of here,’ he mutters to me softly, opening his eyes to look at me. ‘Go on and get.’

‘Hubbard …’ I take hold of his head again as I say his name. I’m watching his lips. I can see he’s hurting and it hurts me too, sharp stabbing pains in my chest and head.

I want to shout for help but I daren’t. I daren’t do anything at all. But I got to do something. I remember that the missus has some medicine in the house. Hubbard’s head feels heavy when I lay it down and I lean back across his chest to whisper in his ear, ‘Hold on, Hubbard. You hold on here while I get some help.’

I break cover and run for the path, not minding that I might be seen and shot, running fast between the bushes, making for the edge of the field, looking for the way back to the house. But I stop dead when the missus shouts my name.

‘Friday!’

I turn round and she’s coming for me, walking quickly through the cotton with Virginia held in one arm and a burning torch in her free hand, the smoke rising up from the fires behind her.

‘Don’t you move now, Friday!’ she shouts at me. ‘You come to me right now!’

I’m rooted to the spot, not knowing what I should do. Peighton and his men are running around the path from the far side of the field, hoping to meet us at the river, and I know they’ll take me if they can; they’ll put me in their cart and be gone from here without a second thought. A volley of shots forces ’em down again, making ’em take cover in the field.

‘Don’t you run now, Friday,’ Mrs Allen warns me, and she’s only a few steps away, almost within reach of me.

I duck back into the cotton. ‘Friday!’ she shouts as I run again, keeping my head down. I charge along the line of bushes, and when I come to the path I straighten up and go full pelt without looking back. Everyone’s at the fire pit. They’re looking scared at the sound of gunfire and they shout to me as I run towards ’em. ‘What’s happening, Friday?’ Lizzie calls out. ‘We heard shooting.’

I run past ’em. ‘Hubbard’s in the field – he’s been shot. I’m going to the house for medicine.’

Sicely comes tearing up the path after me. ‘I know where she keeps it,’ she shouts out. ‘Wait for me, Friday. I know where it is.’

We run together into the yard, where Peighton’s cart and horses stand tethered and waiting. As we start up the stairs to the back door, Gerald shouts at us from the open window of the drawing room. He’s wearing a Confederate cap and has a musket in his hand. ‘Samuel! Get in here, quick.’

Sicely and I run through into the hall. ‘Go get the medicine,’ I tell her as I dash to the drawing-room door. I have to tell Gerald that I’m leaving, and I want to say goodbye.

He leans against the wall to the side of the window, a musket standing upright in his hand, with the butt on the floor and the barrel stopping close to his chin. ‘Get in here,’ he tells me urgently. ‘You got to run away, Samuel. Mother’s made plans for you to go to Alabama with Peighton. You’ve got to get out of here.’

He takes a cartridge from the pouch on his belt and rips the blue paper open with his teeth.

‘What are you doing with that? Put the gun down and come away from the window.’

He rams the bullet home with his rod, then pulls back the hammer, fits a percussion cap and props the gun against the wall. ‘There’s Yankees in the fields, but I won’t let ’em in the house.’

‘They shot Hubbard,’ I tell him. ‘I came to get some medicine.’

Sicely bursts in through the door. She’s holding two glass bottles that are stopped with cork and there’s bandages spilling from the pocket of her pinafore. ‘I got some things might help.’

‘You go on,’ I tell her. ‘Get Lizzie to go with you and I’ll be there in a minute.’

Sicely runs away down the hall and I glimpse her chasing out across the yard as I turn back to Gerald. He’s sitting on the floor, taking off his shoes. ‘You should run to the woods, Samuel. You’ll be all right there. They won’t come after you.’ He holds them out to me. ‘Here, take these. You’re gonna need ’em more than I do.’

‘I can’t take your shoes.’

‘Go on.’ He puts ’em in my hands. ‘Try ’em on. I always wanted to give you a pair of shoes and I think they’ll fit. Hurry up and put ’em on. You haven’t got much time.’

I sit on the floor and loosen the laces. ‘I wouldn’t go unless I had to, but I’ll try to come back with my brother once this is all over.’

‘I’ll give you both a job. You know that.’

I have my feet in his shoes and Gerald stands back and admires them as loud voices arrive in the yard outside. He runs to the window, then ducks down below the sill. ‘There’s Yankees in the yard!’

He seizes his musket from the wall, laying it out across his knee, and I’m trying to tie the laces of his shoes when he suddenly stands up, steps back from the window and fires. There’s a loud crack as the musket kicks up out of his hands, throwing him backwards as it clatters to the floor.

‘Gerald!’ I scramble across to him as he gets to his feet. ‘What’re you doing?’

Soldiers shout instructions to each other as they scatter, and I count three voices, maybe more. Through the window I can see a body on the steps of the house, a crumpled leg and a foot that hangs down into the yard. ‘Oh sweet Jesus,’ I whisper.

Quick footsteps make me turn and I glimpse the flash of a blue tunic as a Yankee darts around the back of the house. Gerald is already priming his gun for a second shot and I scramble across to him as he rams in the bullet and lifts the hammer back. ‘Stop it, Gerald.’ I take hold of his arm. ‘You’ll get us both killed. You’ve got to stop it.’

A windowpane smashes behind us and a burning torch is thrown inside. It crackles on the floorboards, sending black smoke to the ceiling, and I run across, pick it up and
throw it back out through the broken glass. When I turn back to Gerald he’s standing in the middle of the room with his musket raised and there’s a soldier in the yard taking aim at our window. I throw myself to the floor. ‘Gerald, get down.’

There are three shots that come almost at once. Two hit him in the head and the chest, lifting him from his feet, while the third hits a mirror on the wall behind and he falls back hard on shattered glass.

I run the few steps to him, scattering shards with my leather soles, and when I reach him there ain’t no life left in his eyes at all.

‘Gerald?’ His head is limp in my hands. ‘Gerald?’ I shake him hard but it don’t get rid of the look in his eyes. ‘Gerald?’

He won’t stop staring at me. I let go of his head and it rolls to one side – but at least he ain’t looking at me the way he was.

My lungs ain’t working and I can’t breathe, but when I hear footsteps from beyond the window I suddenly find my voice. ‘Don’t shoot us! Don’t shoot me, please!’

I scramble across to Gerald’s gun and throw it out the window as a sign of surrender. Gerald ain’t moved at all, but now I’m here at the window he’s staring at me all over again. He’s got a hole in his head where the blood comes out and it drips onto the floorboard. I curl up into a ball, curl myself up on the floor with my hands around my head and my legs tucked up into my gut, cos if I don’t see him, if I don’t see Gerald staring, then maybe he might move. Maybe he’s just playing at being dead. Maybe he don’t like me watching him while he’s hurt.

Mrs Allen is somewhere outside in the yard. She’s shouting
at the Yankees, telling ’em to get lost, telling ’em she has a son inside that house. Another torch hits the floorboards behind me, but I don’t move to put it out cos Gerald’s over there, still crumpled on the floor staring at me. I force myself to look at him and he looks ever so lonely. I shouldn’t be scared of him. I shouldn’t leave him on his own.

I unfold myself, edging across to him on my hands and knees, the scattered glass pin-pricking me. When I bring him onto my lap I got blood on my hands, but I hold his head to comfort him and his Confederate cap is right there on the floor beside us, so I reach across, pick it up and put it right on his head.

‘Gerald?’ Mrs Allen shouts his name. There are men shouting too. Everyone’s arguing with each other. Mrs Allen shouts out, ‘Let me be! My son is in that house, sir.’ She calls his name again. ‘Gerald! You come out here at once! Do you hear me?’

He ought to be with her. Gerald ought to be outside with his mother, but he can’t go by himself and I’m too scared to take him. I’ll get the blame for this. I know I will. They’ll hang me on the fence and butcher me. They’ll have my guts for garters and sell my hair to the man who makes brushes. I wipe the sleeve of my shirt across my eyes cos they’re hurting from the smoke. I wipe my nose so I can breathe. But now I got him all over my face. I got his blood up in my nose, the smell of him, and all over my cheeks, same as it’s in his golden hair.

I don’t want to go outside. I don’t want to do it. But I can’t stay here, not with the hellfires burning all around.

‘Gerald?’ she shouts again.

‘I got him, Mrs Allen!’

I put a hand under his knees and a hand under his head
and I pick him up slowly, my fingers gripping his clothes so tight it would hurt him if only he were alive. ‘I’m coming out! I’m coming out with Gerald!’

I grip his shoulders, moving from my knees up onto my feet, and he seems so light, light as a feather, like he never grew up. I walk with him to the door. ‘Don’t shoot me! Please God, don’t shoot me too, cos I’m coming outside.’

I go through the hallway and out through the back door, waiting for the shot that will kill me – but it don’t come. I step over the dead Yankee, and suddenly Gerald’s heavier, he’s making me stagger down the last two steps into the yard cos he’s a dead weight in my arms, dragging me down, pulling me towards Mrs Allen. She’s standing fifteen feet away, holding baby Virginia. Beside her is an officer of the Union army and he points a pistol at my head as we approach.

Soldiers are edging out cautiously from where they’d taken cover, their guns trained upon me, but I walk straight to Mrs Allen and lay Gerald at her feet, cos I can’t hold him a moment longer.

Now I’m covered in blood, same as he is, the both of us looking like we been up to no good, and I’m bound to get the blame for this, I know I am.