Echoes of Dark and Light (7 page)

I soon found myself in the beautiful state of Tennessee. Somewhere out there, my future Union infantry awaited. Robert’s old sharpshooter group had moved into Tennessee since he had disappeared back in July, so I followed, hopeful to find some clues. Surely someone had information on my brother, saw him fall, witnessed his capture, or knew something. I had to be careful with my inquiries, though. Anyone close to Robert would know he had a seventeen-year-old sister, not a seventeen-year-old brother.

My slow progress ate away at my patience. I prayed Robert didn’t lay suffering somewhere, while he awaited my arrival, though my gut told me otherwise. I tried to walk as far as I could, as late and as early as I could manage each day. Some nights I found sleep hard to come by, despite being exhausted. So instead of staring at the cobwebbed rafters of a borrowed barn, or the dusty, itchy innards of a hay stack, or even the scary images flashing on the backs of my eyelids, I’d make more time by walking though the night. The nights offered quiet and solitude, the silver stars gleaming above, the whispering wind rustling through the trees, the eerily beautiful hooting of a great horned owl. At night, I didn’t have to worry as much about encountering people, especially men patrolling for deserters. Of course, it was better just to avoid people all together.

One afternoon drew to a close with dark, threatening storm clouds hanging low in the sky. The temperature plummeted, and big, cold raindrops soon plastered my hair and clothes. Not the ideal evening for a stroll. I quickly scanned the surrounding area looking for some type of cover. The options didn’t look promising. I ducked into the pine forest on my left, hoping to avoid a few of the raindrops, when I caught a whiff of smoke. Smoke could mean a campfire or kitchen stove; it almost always meant people I’d do best to avoid. So I approached with caution

My nose led me through the dripping pines to a clearing with a ragged log cabin, a small but snug barn and a rectangular kitchen garden put to sleep for the winter. A chicken coop sat tucked behind the cabin with a few hens clucking within, and a thick column of smoke rose from the rock-stacked chimney. The warm scents of baking bread and a hearty stew wafted out from the front door that stood wide open. My eyebrows arched in surprise and I surveyed the clearing from the safety of the forest cover. Most folks kept the door closed in this kind of weather; something was wrong.

I leaned in a bit, tilting my head to give my ears the best vantage point.
Nothing…no wait!
A gust of wind carried a faint whimpering.

“Great,” I grumbled, “more trouble.”

For a long second, I contemplated the notion of slipping back into the trees and minding my own business, but I quickly pushed that cowardice thought aside. What would my brothers and I have done if Gran had turned her back on us? I couldn’t consciously walk away from someone who might need help, not if I could actually do something.

“Robert,” I whispered to my brother, hoping he could feel my words, “please hang on, wherever you are. I’m coming, but I need to make a quick stop first.”

I stashed my pack behind a tree and pulled my Colt out of my waistband. I kept clear of the window and open door, slinking alongside the rough-barked logs. Then I heard a voice.

“Please, just let us be! We have nothing of value!”

“Shut your mouth, woman!” A deep, angry voice barked out the order. “And keep that kid quiet! He’s chafing my nerves!”

I eased around the corner, gun cocked, senses alert. Light from the kitchen hearth flickered out of the doorway and into the yard. I silently moved into the light. A tall, rounded man stood in the middle of the room with his back to me. He wore a ragged Union uniform and cracked boots with detaching soles tied on with leather straps. A musket balanced in the crook of his arm, halfheartedly aimed at the cabin’s residents. An older woman with graying hair pulled loose of its pins stood trembling by the warm fire. In her arms wiggled a one-year-old baby with tears streaming down his cheeks. Two little girls cowered behind the woman’s skirts. In the corner on a bed lay a sick-looking woman, her eyes red-rimmed, her skin pale, a hacking cough shaking her thin shoulders. Then one of the little girls darted out from behind the older woman and aimed a kick at the man’s shins. But before she could inflict any damage, the man backhanded her across the face and she crumpled in a ball on the floor.

An angry fire exploded in my gut, almost causing me to fire a shot right into the middle of the man’s back. Almost. Instead I yelled, “Drop the musket and turn around!”

The man’s shoulders stiffened at my voice and he slowly turned, but held on tight to his weapon. As his gaze locked with mine, the ground disappeared beneath me, my heart splattered into a million pieces, my breath caught in my throat as I stared into my own eyes.

“Pa?”

His face looked older than I remembered, a lot more than eight year’s worth. Deep lines etched his skin like quotation marks accenting his deep blue eyes, eyes that Robert, Robby and I had all inherited. His red hair lay longer and darker, streaked heavily with gray. Stringy and greasy, it draped his broad shoulders that stretched the seams on his uniform jacket. The sleeves rode a couple of inches above his wrists and the trousers pooled at the tops of his muddy boots.

“You talk awful big for such a skinny kid,” he continued, not having heard my whispered recognition. He moved to aim his rifle. “You mind repeating your request to my face?”

I moved quicker, raising my Colt to aim right between his eyes. “You might reconsider dropping your gun; I never miss.”

He eyed me, weighing his options, contemplating my shooting skills. He wisely lowered his gun.

My anxiety lowered a notch as well. I hadn’t been bluffing; I could have killed him, and I would have if necessary. But I felt relieved that my first killing of a man wouldn’t be my own father. At least not yet.

“Is that better,” he sneered.

“Not good enough. Slide it across the room.”

As soon as he did so, the older woman handed the crying baby over to the blond girl standing next to her, and rushed to the side of the crumpled girl on the floor. She gathered her up and then all of them hurried over to the bed in the corner, huddling with the pale woman lying there. I squatted down to retrieve his weapon, my eyes never leaving his.

“Hey pal, listen,” he began, attempting a jovial, friendly tone. “Think it over; let’s work together. There’s plenty chickens for the both of us. Besides, if we combine our efforts, we can search the property for any valuables in half the time—”

“I already told you,” the older woman broke in, “we don’t own any valuables! The armies already took the horses and cow—”

“Lady, I ain’t gonna tell you again to keep quiet!”

I cleared my throat. “Um, seeing as how I’ve got the gun, I think I’ll be giving the orders. And rule number one, quit yelling! Now sit down.” I motioned to a wooden chair by the kitchen table, and then handed the musket over to the older woman.

He narrowed his blue eyes angrily as he lowered himself into the squeaky chair. As he did so, the light from the fire that he’d been blocking hit me full force. I gratefully moved closer to the warmth, keeping the Colt aimed at him. I watched him studying me in the light.

“You look kind of familiar. Do I know you?”

I almost burst out laughing, a combination of taunt nerves and incredible disbelief. “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked as I stuck my free hand closer to the crackling flames.

“What do you mean?” He rasped his fingers over the red-tipped whiskers.

“Forget it. Now, what are we going to do with you?” I glanced over my shoulder at the family. “Is there a sheriff in town?”

“No, wait, I’m positive that I’ve seen you somewhere before. Where? Two summers ago in Ohio? Or maybe five years ago in Canada?”

“Try looking in a mirror,” I muttered.

“Huh?”

“Bloody bollocks, are you stupid or something? You’re my damn pa!”

The room fell silent except for the baby’s hiccups and the settling of the logs in the fireplace.

“No kidding,” came his only response.

I glared at him with hatred, so wanting to pull the trigger, so wanting to inflict some pain on him for once.

“So,” he mused after a moment, “which one are you?”

“Which one am I?” My face flushed with rage as I tried to keep my voice from cracking. “You have so many kids that you can’t keep them straight?”

He shrugged. “There’s a few running around out there.”

I bit back my temper with a huge effort. “Well, it shouldn’t be that hard to remember as you named all of us the same thing, you conceited, filthy, stinking—”

“Watch your tone with me, son! And of course, I named ya all after myself. But tell me, ya got my curiosity peaked now. Which one is your ma?”

“Ella,” I whispered. “Ella Peterson Rivers; she had three children with you; she died giving birth to my little brother.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, nodding. “I remember her, good cook, that one. So that would make you my oldest boy, Robert Rivers, Junior. Good to see you again, son.”

I almost corrected him, but then thought better of it.
Sure, why not?

“And if I remember correctly, you had a sister, too.”

“Roberta,” I growled.

“Oh, yeah,” he said again. “I wonder what she’s been doing. Probably working in some saloon in New York City by now.” He grinned like he had shared some private joke.

I’d never come so close to murdering another human being in my life.

“Mama?” One of the little girls spoke behind me. “Are they going to kill us?”

Her trembling voice jerked me back to the present. “No,” I murmured, “no one’s gonna be laying a finger on any of you today. I promise.”

“You know,” Pa jumped in, “maybe you should reconsider. What do you say, the two of us joining up together, father and son? We’d be unstoppable!” He stood up with his hand out to shake on the deal.

“Sit down,” I ordered, re-aiming the gun at his chest.

“Easy there,” he crooned, raising his hands in surrender. “You wouldn’t hurt your own kin now, would you?”

“You did!” My voice cracked with rage.

“What are you blabbing about, son?”

“Don’t ‘son’ me, you abusive bucket of scum! You beat us all to a bruised and bloody pulp!”

“Now don’t get carried away. Women and children need discipline.”

“You call that discipline? You beat Ma so bad that she went into early labor and then bled to death. You killed her!”

My chest heaved for breath, my heart pounded in my ears. When my brothers and I had lived with him, he had us so terrified that just the sight of him, even just the scent or sound of him had me cringing in the corner. Somewhere beneath the raging storm inside of me, I realized that fear had turned to hate.

Somehow I managed to refrain from killing Pa in that family’s kitchen. Maybe the thought of him suffering on earth a few more years convinced me. I marched him into town and turned him over to the sheriff. Turned out he’d been wanted by the law for robbing the battlefields’ dead and wounded. I’d been right; the Union uniform hadn’t belonged to him. I didn’t ask the sheriff what would happen to him; whatever punishment he suffered wouldn’t be enough. I left with my back ramrod straight, my shoulders set; I didn’t say goodbye or even give him a second glance. I wished I could say the same about second thoughts.

I returned to the Whitmore family home at their invitation. I didn’t feel like company, but even more, I didn’t want to sleep in the freezing mud.

By the time I knocked on the now closed door of the Whitmore’s cabin, every inch of my body dripped with rain and goose bumps plastered my skin. The older Mrs. Whitmore dragged me inside and ushered me in the lean-to in order to shuck my wet clothes. I emerged into the warm main room with a worn quilt wrapped around me, and handed the drenched clothes to the eager girls waiting to drape them around the room to dry. The younger Mrs. Whitmore sat silently in her corner bed, her arms wrapped around the baby. A steaming bowl of black bean stew appeared in my numb fingers, and I slowly began to thaw as the rain pelting the window, black with night.

The two little girls, one with a bruise across her cheek, sat on the floor near me, their eyes wide and curious. Obviously, they’d been warned not to bother me while I ate. As soon as I set the spoon down in the empty bowl, they pounced.

“Was that man really your pa?”

“Why didn’t he recognize you?”

“How come he’s so mean?”

“Did you get whipped a lot when you was little?”

“Was your ma nice?”

“Did your pa really kill your ma?”

“What’s your sister like?”

“Does your sister really work in a saloon in New York City?”

“Girls! Enough! Let the boy breathe. Where are your manners?” Grandma Whitmore scolded as she handed me a steaming cup of mint tea and then dragged a chair over to the fire for herself.

“It’s okay, really.” I gave a tired smile to the girls.

“Is he really gone?” came the timid voice of the younger Mrs. Whitmore from the corner bed. “He won’t be coming back?”

I turned to look at the pale woman, her face thrown into dancing shadows from the fire. “I don’t know what the sheriff plans for him,” I answered honestly. “But I doubt he’ll come back here.”

The woman sighed a breath of relief.

“But,” I quickly added, “that doesn’t mean someone else won’t. Desperate folk don’t care about the people they stomp.”

Fear moved back into her eyes. “What are we to do?” she whispered.

“Well, for one, you can learn to use that,” I pointed to Pa’s musket still leaning against the wall.