The Storm Before Atlanta (19 page)

“… heard something over here,” said a voice in the woods. “Halt! Who goes there?”

All three of them stood stock-still and stared at each other.

Footsteps crunched through the woods. “Speak or I fire! Who goes there?”

“A friend without a countersign,” Charlie called back. He pronounced
friend
“frayund” and
sign
“sahn,” Jeremy
noticed. He sounded more Southern than he usually sounded when he was talking to Jeremy.

“Come forward with your hands on your head.”

Charlie put his hands on his head, and Jeremy did too. He saw Dulcie do the same. What was going to happen to them now? Was Charlie going to betray them after all? Was that why he’d brought them down here? Jeremy felt like a fool for trusting him. Why had Charlie said “a friend” just now, instead of “friends”?

They didn’t have to move forward, though, because at that instant two Rebs came out of the forest. They were the raggediest-looking Rebs Jeremy had ever seen. It was impossible to tell whether their uniforms were Reb or Union, because all the clothes they had on were so completely covered in red clay dust that Jeremy doubted it could ever be washed out. And you wouldn’t want to try to wash it out, because the clothes—what was left of them—would probably fall apart. Patches had been sewn on top of patches until the patches were not so much holding the clothes together as holding each other—the men were dressed in patches. They wore slouch hats and, instead of shoes, rawhide sandals that were crawling with flies.

Jeremy didn’t notice this right away, though, because he was too busy staring down the barrels of the rifles that were pointing at the three of them. He clasped his fingers together extra-tight so that the Rebs would understand
that he sure enough had his hands on top of his head and intended to keep them there. He felt much more frightened than he had felt at Resaca. These guns were pointed at
him
, not at the Union forces in general. Him and Dulcie and Charlie, of course.

And now everything depended on what Charlie chose to say about Jeremy and Dulcie.

“What outfit you with, ‘friend’?” Both Rebs were as skinny as scarecrows, but if one of them was just a little less skinny than the other, it was that one who spoke.

“Fifty-eighth North Carolina,” said Charlie, his southern accent even stronger.

“What about the—”

“She’s my servant,” said Charlie.

Jeremy wasn’t sure if that was a good sign. Did it mean Charlie meant to stand by him and Dulcie, or was he making Dulcie a slave? He chanced a sidelong glance at Dulcie to see how she was taking this, and got a surprise. Instead of the defiance he expected to see in her bayonet-sharp eyes, he saw a completely changed Dulcie. She stood stooped over, her hands clasped on top of her head and her eyes downcast. Her face was expressionless, as if it was all one to her whether she was captured, let go, or shot. Dulcie was pretending to be a slave.

And he, by his silence, was pretending to be a Reb. At least until Charlie gave him away. Pretending, and hoping like anything that the men with the rifles didn’t see through his pretense. He felt he ought to say something—something
defiant, like “The Union forever!” The Drummer Boy of Shiloh would have. But Jeremy looked at those rifle muzzles and stayed silent. His stomach hurt.

“Fifty-eighth North Carolina, are you?” said the skinnier Reb. “What about him?” He jerked his rifle barrel at Jeremy for emphasis.

Jeremy looked down at the ground and waited for Charlie to speak.

“Him too,” said Charlie.

Jeremy let out a silent sigh of relief and hated himself for it.

“Can’t he talk?”

“Nope,” said Jeremy. “Struck dumb by a lightning bolt as an infant.”

The Rebs looked as skeptical as this explanation deserved. But Jeremy had to give Charlie credit for trying—and he felt guilty for having doubted his friend.

“And how come he’s got a U.S. belt buckle?” said the less-skinny Reb.

“Took it off a stiff ’un at Resaca,” said Charlie.

“And you’re 58th North Carolina, are you?”

“Yup.”

“Think we should shoot ’em here or capture ’em?”

“Capture ’em. They’re just kids.”

“But there’s three of ’em if you count the colored one.”

“Who counts the colored ones?”

“They could turn on us, is what I’m saying.”

Either they flat-out didn’t believe Charlie—which was
pretty likely—or they weren’t really Rebs but something else, homegrown Yanks or one of those other groups, Jeremy thought. Or they just didn’t like people from North Carolina.

“Washington,” said Charlie. “And I dreamed the boys was all coming home.”

Jeremy looked at him to see if he had lost his mind. Charlie’s lips were pressed tightly together, and he was staring right at the Rebs, and he looked perfectly sane.

The two Rebs exchanged a glance.

“And the Constitution,” Charlie added.

“Do you know another name?” said the less-skinny Reb.

“Yes, I do,” said Charlie.

“Tell me it, then.”

“It ain’t to be spoken,” said Charlie.

“Can you spell it?”

“E,” said Charlie.

“A,” said the less-skinny Reb.

“C.”

“E.”

“P.”

The guns were lowered. Charlie took his hands off his head. Cautiously, Jeremy and Dulcie did the same. Jeremy’s hands were all pins and needles, and he was busy trying to figure out how you’d pronounce a name spelled E-A-C-E-P.

“Name’s Bill,” said the less-skinny Reb, sticking out a hand.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bill.” Charlie shook his hand. “I’m Charlie, and this here’s my pardner Jeremy.”

“Robby,” said the skinnier Reb, and they shook hands all around—except Dulcie. Bill and Robby didn’t ask her name, and Charlie didn’t offer it. And Jeremy thought he was best off saying nothing at all while he tried to figure out what in tarnation was going on.

“What’re you doing with a Yankee pardner?” asked Bill.

“Showing him around. I wanted him to see the mounds.” Charlie nodded at the moat and the cotton field beyond.

“We was sent down here to wash out a nest of homegrown Yanks,” said Bill. “Seen any around?”

“Nope.”

“Well, if y’all see ’em tell ’em we’re looking for ’em and they best dust off sharpish,” said Bill.

“We’ll do that,” said Charlie.

“Hate to have ’em get hurt,” Bill explained. He nodded. “Carry on, then.”

“Any trouble up ahead?” said Charlie, pointing into the woods.

“Some more lookin’ for the homegrowns. But just talk to them like you talked to us. They’re fine.”

Charlie nodded. “Much obliged, then.”

“Hope to make your better acquaintance,” said Bill.

“Likewise,” said Robby, and Charlie said, “It was a pleasure makin’ yours,” and then the two Rebs turned and stalked off into the woods.

“What was that all about?” Jeremy whispered when he was sure they were out of earshot.

Charlie shook his head, not answering. “Let’s go find this old homeplace of Dulcie’s.”

SEVENTEEN

T
HE FARM LOOKED SMALLER THAN
D
ULCIE REMEMBERED
. That wasn’t surprising, she supposed—once, it had been the whole world. Was that really only three weeks ago? Now the world had grown infinitely more vast, full of towns and railroads, mountains and rivers, and thousands upon thousands of people. And now, with Mr. Lincoln’s soldiers invading, Dulcie could return without risk of being recaptured. Maybe. She hoped.

The corn was coming along nicely, Dulcie saw, except that the fields were overgrown with weeds. So was the garden. The barnyard was unkempt, the dooryard unswept—so Aunt Betsy and Uncle John must have gone. They would never let the yard look like that. There was no sign of the chickens, the pigs, or the cow. They had either been impressed along with Begonia the horse or eaten by Yankees, Dulcie supposed.

Missus sat alone on a rocking chair on the porch. Dulcie didn’t know what she felt as she walked across the
farmyard with the boys beside her—she had expected to feel anger, hate, maybe pride at Missus seeing she was free and out of reach forever. Fear she didn’t feel. Fear was gone.

Missus looked up and saw Dulcie. Their eyes met. Dulcie stiffened. Behind her she felt Jeremy move closer to her, and though she should have been reassured she was annoyed instead. She had to stand up to Missus by herself. She was free and unafraid. She took a step forward.

“Come back, have you?” said Missus.

“I want to know where my parents are,” said Dulcie.

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to live on your own,” said Missus, not listening. “Blacks say they want freedom. But what do they mean by it? Freedom from work, that’s what. And you can’t live if you don’t work.”

Dulcie noticed now that Missus’s dress was dirty. There was a new rent down one side that had been inexpertly stitched up with the wrong color thread. Dulcie looked around the farmyard. Although the animals were gone the last evidences of them were still lying unremoved, mucking up the place. Usually the farmyard and the dooryard were swept into neat arc-shaped patterns at least once a week. Now they were just red dust.

“Where are Aunt Betsy and Uncle …”

“They run off. They run about a week after you did.”

“So there’s no one to take care of the place,” said Dulcie. And, she realized, Missus didn’t have a clue how to take care of it herself.

“I don’t know how you blacks think you’ll live on your
own. You’re all like big children, really. You need looking after.”

Against her will, Dulcie felt a wave of pity. “Look, Missus, you’ve got to take care of yourself.” The words tasted funny in her mouth, and Dulcie realized she’d never called Missus “you” before. It wasn’t how a slave talked. A slave would say, “Missus has to take care of herself.”

Missus stared at Dulcie as if she’d never seen her before.

“You’ve got to,” Dulcie repeated. “You’ve got to—well, to pull up those weeds in the vegetable garden, for one thing. Want me to show you which are the weeds?”

Missus’s eyes narrowed. “You coming back to your rightful place, then?”

“No!” said Dulcie. “I mean, I’m in my rightful place now. I’m with the Union Army.”

“She needs help,” said Jeremy, softly, behind her. “Maybe you should stay and help her a little bit.”

Dulcie wheeled on him, furious. His face showed pity for Missus. Dulcie might feel pity, but Jeremy—Jeremy had no idea! He just had no idea. “Come here,” she told him. “I want to show you something.”

She turned and marched toward the barn. She could hear footsteps crunching the dust behind her, and she didn’t look to see who was following her. Behind the barn was a little house, made of logs, about the size of Dr. Flood’s hospital tent. The door hung half-open and Dulcie, unable to suppress a shudder, marched inside.

Their breath told her the boys were both in there with
her. She stood in silence, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. The place smelled of fear, sweat, and old blood.

She could tell Jeremy’s eyes adjusted to the dark faster than hers, because she heard him gasp.

An iron bar ran across one wall, near the roof. Another ran along the floor. Three sets of iron shackles were fixed firmly to each bar. A long-handled whip still leaned against the wall and, next to it, a board with holes drilled through it.

“The board,” Dulcie said, “they dip in boiling water, then beat you with it to raise blisters. Then they cut the blisters with a whip. Then they rub salt in.”

“They don’t do that all the time!” said Charlie.

“That Missus lady did this?” said Jeremy.

“Sometimes. Other times she’d hire a man in to do it. Once she hired a man to whip a slave—to whip Anne, I mean. He whipped Anne two hundred times. I watched.”

“No man would do that!” said Jeremy.

“This one did.”

“What did they whip her for?” said Charlie, challenging-like.

“For running away.”

“She shouldn’t have run away, then.” But Charlie’s voice didn’t sound as sure as his words.

“And because Missus always hated her,” Dulcie added. “Anne was very light-skinned, you see.”

She hadn’t understood this fully at the time, when she
was only five years old, but later she had understood. She’d put the rest of the story together from mutterings and whisperings around the fire in Aunt Betsy’s cabin when they thought she was asleep, from remarks and glances and things only half-said. The adults would have said she was too young to understand, but she understood, all right.