Brave Enemies (40 page)

I opened my eyes and saw a bloody man led by two others to a tree.

“This is what we do to deserters,” a man in uniform said.

“Ain't a deserter,” the bloody man said. I saw he was a boy from the militia. I'd seen him in McDowell's militia that morning.

An officer came up to the men and asked where the boy had been caught.

“We found him in the swamp,” one of the captors said. “He was hid inside a holler tree.”

“I was answering a call of nature,” the boy said. He spoke like some of his teeth had been knocked out. His mouth was bloody and blood ran down on his chin.

“You was answering the call of a coward,” said one of the men holding the boy.

The officer stood in front of the boy and asked him questions. He asked him what his name was.

“Hez Carlton,” the boy said and spat out blood.

“You have shamed yourself and the militia, Hez,” the officer said.

“Ask Luther,” the boy said. “Ask Luther if I run away.”

“Don't know no Luther,” the officer said.

“You say ‘sir' when you speak,” one of the men said, and slapped the boy across the side of the head.

“Ask Luther, sir,” the boy said. He was crying and tears mixed with the blood on his chin. The officer asked him what company he had been in, and what rank he had. The boy cried and wiped his nose on his sleeve. The officer asked him how long he was in the battle.

“I was there till the end,” the boy said.

“What was you doing at the end?” the officer said.

“I was running like everybody else, from the horses,” the boy said.

“You never even seen the end of the battle,” one of the men said.

“I seen all there was,” the boy said. You never saw such a look as was in his eyes. He was confused about what had happened to him, and he was scared. He couldn't understand what had gone wrong that day.

“We won in spite of cowards like you,” the officer said.

The men that gathered around said the boy ought to be hanged.

“No, no,” one of the men who had found Hez said. “You don't hang deserters; you shoot them.”

They argued about it for a long time. Some said he wasn't worth the powder and lead it would take to kill him. Others said he wasn't worth the rope it would take to hang him.

“But a rope can be used again,” one soldier said.

“You can't use a rope that has hung somebody,” another soldier said.

I wanted to tell them to let the boy go. I wanted to say he wasn't any more scared than the rest of us had been. It was just an accident that Pickens and Hughes had been able to stop us and send us back to the line. The boy had run away before the officers stopped us. I wanted to say he was just a boy, and now the battle was over it didn't matter anyway.

But I couldn't move my lips or tongue. I couldn't move my neck. As much as I wanted to speak, I couldn't say a word. My throat was locked and my tongue had melted.

“I didn't go to hurt nobody,” the boy said.

“You let everybody in your company down,” the officer said.

I wanted to call out to John to come and help the boy. John could talk about mercy and compassion and forgiveness. He could talk about humility and kindness. John could talk better than anybody I knew. But he was over on the far side of the field conducting a funeral, and I couldn't call to him or see him anymore. If it was John.

The men decided they would hang the boy named Hez. They called for a rope and somebody got one from a wagon. The boy tried to jerk away from the men holding him, but they fitted the noose over his head. The boy shook his head like he was trying to shake loose from his body.

“Don't do it to him,” I tried to say. But nothing came out of my mouth. Hez Carlton was no older than me. He had run when the rest of us ran from the Green Dragoons. He had hidden in a tree, instead of running until he was a long way from the Cowpens.

They dragged him over to a tree at the edge of the field. The boy's legs kept folding under him and he couldn't walk. They carried him backward to the black gum tree. But there was so much brush and little limbs on the tree they had to hack them away before they could throw the rope over a big limb. They finally got the rope over a branch and jerked it tight.

“You've got to help him, John,” I tried to call out. But not a word came from my mouth. I couldn't even get the attention of the orderly because
he was looking at the boy with the rope around his neck. Everybody was watching the boy called Hez.

They pulled the rope tight and Hez's head was jerked back. “Mama,” he hollered out. He twisted around but they had tied his hands and he couldn't take hold of the rope. They jerked on the rope and he stood on tiptoes.

If John couldn't help him, I had to pray that God would help him. Only the Lord could save Hez. Only Jesus' mercy would keep the boy from hanging. The boy coughed and choked as the rope got tighter. He squealed a little and coughed again as the rope cut into his throat.

Please, Jesus, save the boy, I prayed. He hasn't done anything the rest of us wouldn't do. I know it could be me hanging there, or Gaither or T. R. Show us your mercy, I prayed. Show that you care for the fall of the sparrow. Show that you are listening.

I closed my eyes so tight they hurt. And I strained so hard to say the words my throat hurt. I couldn't hear much. I couldn't hear myself say the words. All I could hear were crows calling across the field.

As they jerked the boy off his feet the coughing stopped, and there was a gasp from his throat, and a grunt. His eyes bulged out and he twisted and wrenched around, and kicked out to reach the ground. He jerked the rope like a trout that was caught.

Lord, you don't hear a thing, I said, suddenly angry. Don't you see this boy suffer? You do nothing. Somebody said the language of God was silence, the big silence of a long time passing. I thought: there is nothing up there in the sky but crows. There is nobody who can hear me.

And then I thought: If God does speak, he speaks the language of cruelty. He speaks the language of pain and torture. Everywhere I looked in the world I saw pain and hurt. I found sickness and brutality. If God talks, he talks with cruelty and silence. The language of the world is hurt and suffering, guilt and hatred.

As the boy was pulled higher his legs danced like he was walking on air. If you couldn't see the rope you would think he was skipping and
treading on the air. They pulled him higher and he looked like a body raised in a spell or vision. His eyes stared out like he was startled.

All the men had taken off their hats. They stood respectful, like it was a sacred moment, now that the boy was squirming and dying. They had done it to him, and now they acted reverent out of respect for him. They stood at attention like it was a ceremony to honor him. They watched the body jerk and shudder till it was still.

What does it mean, I thought, that they are all so respectful as he dies? What is the use of that? And what is the use of a God that would let it happen?

Then I was ashamed of myself, for I knew I was out of my head thinking such things. Was I losing my mind the way Mama had lost hers? My anger and my pride had gotten hold of me. Who was I to question the working out of God's will in the world? I was the one who had killed Mr. Griffin and deceived everybody about being a boy. I had killed many redcoats that day. What did I know about the nature and mystery of things? Josie, you be quiet, I said. You should think of your baby. You should think of Mama and of John. I was sorry for my anger, and sad for the young Hez Carlton. I was sad for myself.

T
HE GROUND WAS SHAKING
and jolting under me. The hard ground shoved my shoulders and shook my belly. The jerking was so bad I was afraid my bones would pull apart. I was afraid the shaking would hurt the baby. I wondered if it was an earthquake or thunder.

I was so deep asleep I couldn't open my eyes. I couldn't even turn my head. The ground knocked and rattled. I was afraid it would shake the baby inside me so it tore loose. I strained to put my hand on my belly to hold it still. It took all my strength just to move my wrist.

The jolting rolled me to one side and then to the other. Is the battle still going on? I wondered. Are the cannons firing? Is there thunder and grinding rocks in the ground? Are millstones rubbing together to make this noise?

And then I remembered I'd seen the preacher at the service for the dead soldiers and he looked like John.

“John,” I called out, and tried to open my eyes. But my eyelids were heavy as stones. “John,” I said again. My eyelids felt glued together, like I had been crying and the lashes stuck. I opened my eyes a little, and the light crashed in and blinded me.

“Oh,” I said.

I had to open my eyes. I had to see what made the ground rock and sway. Why was I pushed to one side and then the other? Why did the ground slam against my back and shake my belly?

I opened my eyes a little more and light hit me like a fist driving a spike into my head. “Oh,” I said again. It was cloudy overhead, but the light was still bright.

“Now you just lay still,” the orderly said.

“Where is John?” I said.

“Don't know no John.”

The orderly was moving and trees overhead were moving. Limbs swayed and floated out of sight. I must be in a cart or wagon bouncing on a rocky road, I thought. It wasn't the ground that was quaking, but a wagon bed or cart of some kind. The road jolted me and knocked my belly.

“Where is the general?” I said.

“General done gone north,” the orderly said.

I remembered how Old Morgan had winced when he knelt beside me. He had fought the battle while in great pain. Trees washed past in the air above me. As the wagon jolted, trees dipped and swayed. Sycamores and poplars rushed past me.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“Don't know, miss,” the orderly said. “Reckon we looking for a place to camp.”

The wagon must have hit a rock or log, for I was knocked sideways. And the jolt woke the pain in my leg. Pain washed through me and over me, and I cried out before I knew it. I hollered louder than I expected to.

“When we stop I'll give you some more laudanum,” a voice said. I squinted and saw the sergeant walking beside the wagon, the sergeant who had helped the doctor with the wounded.

“My leg hurts,” I said.

“We'll stop soon to rest,” the sergeant said. “We've got to get away from the field before Cornwallis arrives.”

I groaned and reached out to hold the side of the wagon. The pain made me want to crawl away from my leg and out of myself.

“Just hold still,” the sergeant said. “We'll leave you at the first house we come to.”

“You can't leave me till I find John,” I said.

“The major says we can't have no woman in the army,” the sergeant said.

“Whoa,” somebody called out. The wagon tilted sideways and stopped. I heard horses galloping, getting closer and louder.

“It's not Tarleton?” I said, but nobody heard me, for there was hollering and drumming of hooves. I heard shouts and saw men go by in the sky above me. Horses panted and I smelled sweat and wet horses. Mud and dirt flung into the wagon, and a drop of muddy water splashed on my face.

As quickly as they had appeared the horses were gone. They had passed us and gone on up the road. The hoofbeats faded.

“That was Colonel Washington's men,” the sergeant said. “I reckon they chased Tarleton as far as they could.” He held a little bottle to my lips and I took a sip of the earthy, musky tincture. I was hurting so badly I needed the sweetness of the laudanum, the saltiness of the tincture. The laudanum soothed like grains of salt on the tongue, making the blood calm and the seconds shiny.

“Don't leave me out in the woods,” I said.

“We'll leave you at the first house we come to,” the sergeant said.

“I don't want to lose my foot,” I said.

The wagon started creaking and jolting again. I slammed from side to side, and the boards smacked against my back. But the laudanum soaked
out through me and warmed my legs and toes. I tried to move my toes, but my feet were floating. I was floating and rocked by the wagon. The wagon tilted like a boat in a storm.

I thought how Mama was left alone with nobody to help her. Mama had run me off just when she needed me to stay with her and help her. She was afflicted in her mind. Had the patriots burned her house down? Had they shaved her head and stuck tar and feathers all over her?

If I found John we would go to Mama and help her. The thought of a place in the mountains where we could live in peace brought tears to my eyes. The thought of finding John and going off to the mountains was almost too good to wish for. The thought of being forgiven by Mama in her right mind was too much to hope for. But first I had to find John. I had to ask him to forgive me for deceiving him. I had to tell him about what I had done to Mr. Griffin. But if he was the minister conducting the service on the battlefield we were going away from him.

“You must find my husband John,” I said.

“We don't have time to look for nobody,” the sergeant said.

If they left me at the first house we came to, I might never find John. If they left me in the woods I would never find my way back to Pine Knot Branch. I could never ask John for his forgiveness. If I died in the woods my baby would die also.

Trees swayed above me and the wagon swung over rocks and banged in mud holes. Would the Lord punish me for my angry thoughts on the battlefield? Would he chastise me because I had questioned his silence and absence? I wondered if I had committed the unpardonable sin.

Don't punish my baby, I prayed. Punish me but don't punish my baby. Don't punish Mama as a way of punishing me. Instead of being prideful and angry I needed to humble myself. Instead of accusing God I should have admitted my own weakness and sadness. I was helpless on my own.