The Winter Family (4 page)

They rode east through the autumn woods with the sky rumbling above their heads and the air thick with the threat of rain. No one spoke. They were perhaps two or three days ahead of the main army, taking the winding back roads to avoid being seen and wearing ragged overalls instead of uniforms. Still, anyone would have known they were Union soldiers by their Spencer rifles and horses. Young men were a rarity in this part of the world; their movements could not avoid scrutiny.

Around noon they reached a fork in the road and Quentin called a halt. He gave the enlisted men permission to light a fire, despite the frowning disapproval of Sergeant Gordon Service, and jauntily announced that it would be the last time they ate hardtack for a fortnight.

“It’ll be roast pork and corn bread from now on for us, boys,” he said, and the men cheered. “Service, Müller, a word please.”

The men dismounted and set the horses grazing and started a fire where the two little roads diverged. Quentin headed a few steps into the woods with his two sergeants.

“I’m going to divide the unit in three,” Quentin said.

“Divide the unit?” Gordon Service asked, confused.

“Yes,” Quentin said. “Each of us shall strike out on his own.”

Gordon was tall and a little paunchy despite the rigors of military life, with a large bushy mustache and a receding hairline. Before the war he had owned and operated a dry goods store along with
his wife. They had not prospered, and he had joined the army early, having decided they could use the money and that the whole thing was likely to be over by Christmas. That was three long years ago. He had served under Quentin Ross the whole time. He had always found Quentin a competent enough officer, though somewhat odd. Now, though, something seemed a little off about the lieutenant. As if he were drunk.

“Aren’t we more likely to be captured if we split up?” Gordon asked.

“No, not at all,” Quentin said. “Smaller groups are less likely to be detected. And three groups can scout three times as fast as one.”

“Yah,” Sergeant Jan Müller said. “That is true. Also, it is less likely we will all be captured.”

Quentin smiled. It gave him a faintly predatory air. “True enough, Sergeant Müller,” he said.

Jan Müller was carefully unfolding his map. His hands were hard and callused but he handled the tattered map gracefully. He was a German immigrant who had been conscripted by corrupt Democratic officials the moment he stepped off the boat, before he had learned to speak a word of English. His fastidious attention to detail and prompt obedience had helped him rise to his current rank. He had never served under Quentin Ross before.

“Well, all right, sir,” Gordon said. “Who shall we take?”

“I’ll take the Empire brothers,” Quentin said. “Divide the rest of the men between you.”

“The Empire brothers?” Gordon asked.

Even Jan looked a little surprised at this. He had a long face and when, as now, he was not entirely comfortable with something, he had a sensitive air, like a poet.

“Certainly,” Quentin said. “I wouldn’t want either of you to have to trouble with them; they can be a little rough. But they’ve more experience with this sort of thing than our boys.”

Gordon looked past Quentin to where the Empire brothers were resting. Johnny, the youngest, was a mountain of a man, well over six feet tall, with a shock of red hair and a dumb malicious laugh. Charlie, the middle brother, was already balding and turning to fat, with close-set, suspicious eyes. Duncan, the eldest, was not much taller
than Quentin and had a long cruel face that was pitted with smallpox scars. His eyes were bright with unrefined intelligence and his hair was prematurely gray. The three of them were spitting and muttering together and looking around at the undefended countryside with a kind of suppressed glee.

This sort of thing? Gordon thought.

“Very well, sir,” Jan said, dubiously, and then rustled his map. “Where shall we rendezvous?”

When they were finished Quentin strolled over toward the two youngest soldiers in the group, Reginald Keller and Augustus Winter. They were sitting together at the fire, heating hardtack and desiccated vegetables in a cast-iron frying pan. It looked like something that might have been raked out of a gutter, all brown and full of dead leaves.

Reggie was fair-haired and blue eyed with an easy laugh and a generous nature. The other men, Quentin knew, called him “Babe.” Winter was even younger and fairer than Babe Keller: his skin was as pale as moonlight, his hair was the color of dried straw, and his eyes were a shade of amber as light as champagne. In strong sunlight they turned gold and gave pale young Winter the look of a corpse with golden coins over his eyes. He was closed off, quiet, almost sullen. The men ironically called him “Old Man Winter.”

“Reggie,” Quentin said. “Augustus.”

“Hello sir,” Reggie said, smiling.

“I’ll bet you’re ready for some real food soon,” Quentin said.

“Hardtack’s better than nothing at all, sir,” Reggie said.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Quentin said.

Winter did not speak.

“Do you think there will be any soldiers in the town, sir?” Reggie asked.

“I doubt it,” Quentin said. “They’ll all be in Macon or Augusta by now.”

“We fooled ’em good,” Reggie said. “And now we’re going to lick these dirty rebs. Right where they live.”

For some reason, Quentin found this exceedingly amusing. He chortled. “You think so?” he said. “What about you, Augustus?”

For a while Winter did not say anything. So long, in fact, that
Quentin began to wonder how to handle the situation gracefully. Finally the boy spoke.

“The Confederates have sinned against the Lord. Numbered, numbered, weighed, divided.”

“What’s that mean?” Reggie asked.

“Don’t you know anything, Reggie?” Winter said. “That’s from the Book of Daniel.”

“Yes,” Quentin said. “The Lord’s hand wrote those words on the wall of the king’s palace in Babylon. Numbered, because God had numbered the days of their kingdom and finished it. Weighed, because they had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. And divided, because their kingdom was divided and given over to foreign soldiers.”

Quentin regarded Winter curiously. Winter looked at the fire.

“So you think God’s going to punish the Confederates?” Reggie asked.

“I don’t know,” Winter said. “I guess we’ll see.”

“Do you think we might see Him?” Reggie asked.

“I don’t think we’ll see Him directly,” Winter said. “It ain’t like that. It’s more like how you can see the wind because the leaves move on the trees, or the clouds go by the moon.”

As Winter spoke, Reggie looked up at the trees and laughed. They were waving with the wind.

“Well, this has been a most illuminating conversation,” Quentin said.

After their hasty meal, they remounted their horses and split into three groups. Gordon took the bulk of the men, including Winter and Reggie, on the main road to the town, while Quentin and Jan took the rest along the smaller road to the north.

“Good hunting, Sergeant Service!” Quentin cried. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yes sir,” Gordon said.

Augustus Winter watched Quentin unnoticed, the light of knowledge illuminating his golden eyes.

A few hours later, and a few miles to the east, the sun was setting on the small village of Planter’s Factory. The factory that gave the town its name was at the north end of the main street. It was three stories high, built of bright red brick. A gristmill and a sawmill were just south of the factory, on the west bank of the slow, brown Ocmulgee River.

As the evening light was fading, three ragged Indians emerged from the forest north of the factory. One of them was a small half-breed with skin the color of dark clay and long, frizzy black hair. His teeth were yellow and widely spaced and sprouted from his prominent gums at canted angles. One of his eyes was gray and the other brown. He wore the blue jacket of a Union soldier and an officer’s saber hung from his belt, and he carried a heavy box on his back.

The other two were full-blooded Cherokee, tired and hungry. The elder was a tall man with a big nose and ears like the handles of a jug. The younger man was small and walked in a demoralized shuffle, his hands tied together.

The three traveled south until they arrived at the inn. Warm yellow lamplight spilled through its windows onto their drawn and pinched faces. The eldest Indian stepped forward and knocked on the front door.

The innkeeper, a short, stout, purposeful sort of woman, opened the door a crack.

“Are you Yankees?” she asked.

“No ma’am,” the eldest Indian said. “I’m Lieutenant Timothy Stoga, of the Sixty-Ninth North Carolina Regiment. Thomas’s Legion. This is my nephew, Private Bill Bread.”

The innkeeper peered past them to the half-breed.

“Hidey, hidey!” the half-breed sang out.

“Don’t pay him no nevermind,” Stoga said. “He’s my slave. His name is Navan Sevenkiller.”

“Your slave?” the innkeeper said. “What’s he doing dressed like that?”

“Bill and I were taken prisoner during the Battle of Atlanta,” Stoga said. “He’s the one that got us free. Our regiment’s gone,
ma’am. They’re all dead. We want to get back to North Carolina and see if we can’t get mustered up again. We were hoping we could stay here tonight.”

The innkeeper seemed encouraged by Stoga’s manners but a little put off by the slave’s attire.

“He can wait outside if you like,” Stoga said. “But he did spring us loose.”

“Well, all right,” the innkeeper said. “He’s better off where you can keep an eye on him anyway, I reckon.”

Stoga and Bread tromped into the cramped room and sat down at the table. Sevenkiller wandered around, giggling softly, taking it all in: the old, heavy furniture, the stuffed stag’s head, the stone fireplace, the cheap painting hanging on the wall.

“Salt pork and sweet potatoes,” the innkeeper said.

It was not a question, but Stoga said, “Yessum, please.” And then: “Sit down, Navan.”

Sevenkiller did. The innkeeper returned with a big bowl of mashed yams, and Sevenkiller and Stoga began to eat. Bill Bread did not touch his food. He stared at the floor between his feet and sweated and looked as if he might be sick.

“I’ll get y’all some cider,” the innkeeper said.

“No,” Stoga said immediately. “No intoxicating drinks at the table. Thank you, ma’am.”

The innkeeper looked surprised but did not comment.

“I’m thirsty,” Bill said, flicking his eyes over to the corner of the room, where the keg of cider rested on its side, and his pupils expanded with interest, absorption, love. But his mouth tightened. As if with hatred. At himself or the drink or both, no one could say.

Bill looked down again. “I’m thirsty,” he repeated.

“You can have water,” Stoga said.

“Well, you’re welcome to whatever you want,” the innkeeper said. “I’d rather give it to you than the Yankees. They’ll be here tomorrow, I expect.”

“Hrmm,” Stoga said. “I don’t think so. They’re marching from Atlanta to Macon. They won’t make it this far east.”

“Don’t you know?” the innkeeper said. “The word’s all over town. The skirmishers are already here.”

Stoga frowned and put down his fork. “I don’t see how they can be this far east. Perhaps they’re deserters.”

“No,” the innkeeper said. “One of them’s a German, going door-to-door. Writing things down in a little book. They’ll be in town tomorrow. The slaves have even started running off. Over a hundred at the Johnson plantation. Just run right off.”

“Hrmm,” Stoga said. He looked at Sevenkiller, who grinned and stood up.

“Where is the Johnson plantation?” Sevenkiller asked.

“Why Lieutenant Stoga,” the innkeeper said. “You can’t send your slave out there.”

“He’ll come back,” Stoga said. “Don’t take any risks, Navan. We’re leaving tomorrow morning, with or without you.”

Sevenkiller wiped his mouth.

“Can I borrow a horse?” he asked.

Soon he was riding on the road to the Johnson plantation, singing a wild and tuneless song: “Hey-a, hey-a, hey-a-ho, hey-a-ho, hey-a-ho-ho-ho!”

His pony’s mane was unpulled, and it walked with its mouth a few inches above the dusty road, as if searching for a mouthful of grass.

Cotton fields stretched out to either side. All of the plants had been harvested, stripped of the bolls of cotton and left standing withered and finished. Past the fields were the trees, yellow-gold and red in the autumn.

“Hidey, hidey, hidey, ho,” Sevenkiller sang, as he leaned back in his saddle.

The fields appeared to be totally deserted. The barn that contained the cotton gins was dark and silent.

After Sevenkiller passed the barn he could see the big old house at the end of the road, right in the middle of the plantation. Sundown had been some time ago, but Sevenkiller’s eyes were sharp, even at night, and he could tell that the shoddy longhouses where the slaves slept were empty.

“Hmm, hmm, hmm-hmm!”

The front door to the house burst open and a black woman came out screaming, a long wordless wail of despair and horror.