Rhett Butler's people (44 page)

"What's that you say, boy? You sayin' we should string up one of General Forrest's troopers? Hang a man fought b'side Archie Flytte? Well, you son of a bitch." Archie grabbed the boy's shirtfront and flung him into the crowd.

The graybeard said, "We got to make a zample!"

Another old man said disgustedly, "Aw, the hell with this. I'm late for dinner."

"Leave Butler be. There's niggers to burn." A cackle at his own wit, "You hear that? 'There's niggers to burn'!"

As they passed Tunis's corpse down the corridor, men punched and clutched at Tunis's groin and spat. One mad-eyed man dabbed blood from the bullet hole in Tunis's forehead and stuck his finger in his mouth.

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After the mob followed the corpse outside, Rhett and Archie were alone in the sheriff's office.

Archie brought a lint-covered plug of tobacco from his pocket, bit off a chaw, and settled it under his lip. "All those months we was ridin' together, I done like you said. I fetched firewood and watered the horses and 'twas me foraged our grub. Was there a rocky place to lie down and a smooth place, you spread your slicker on the smooth. I pretended I never know'd you was lookin' down on me. I guess you figured I was dirt-stupid. Captain Butler, you saved my life. Account of that, I was beholden to you. Well, Captain Butler, I ain't beholden no more. You and me are quits."

After Archie left, Rhett slumped against the rough stone wall and released his revolver. His hand ached from gripping it. He looked at his trembling hand, opened and closed his fingers. It was a hand, only a hand -- whatever it had done.

He heard the

whump

when lamp oil ignited their bonfire. The basement windows glowed red. They darkened when they tossed Tunis onto the blaze.

Rhett snuffed the lantern and sat in the dark behind the sheriff's desk while the mob screeched and hollered and an off-key voice wailed, "I'll live and die in Dixie! I'll live and die in Dixie!"

When the stink of burning meat seeped into the basement, Rhett lit another cigar and puffed until the tip glowed. He coughed and gagged and his stomach heaved. He puffed until the cigar scorched his fingers.

Sometime later, they dragged Tunis out of the fire to hang him. They started shooting. They yelled and shot for a time.

About four that morning, the moon set and men went home to their warm beds, their beloved wives and children.

It was getting light when Rhett came out. Three men sat by the bonfire, passing a bottle. What had been Captain Tunis Bonneau -- Ruthie's husband, Nat's father, Rhett's friend -- dangled from the limb of a chestnut tree. It looked more like last year's Yule log than a man.

Something glittered at Rhett's boot tip. He bent for the metal frames of Tunis's lensless glasses.

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One of the drunks tottered to his feet, wobbled toward the fire, saved himself by throwing his arms in the air, got turned properly, and zigged and zagged down the street.

Cooing and clucking, pigeons fluttered onto the courthouse lawn. Two ravens settled in the chestnut tree. One opened its wings and cawed. The other dropped onto the burned thing and pecked at it.

Sheriff Talbot arrived. "Mornin', Butler." The sheriff's glance never wandered to the torso. "I b'lieve you killed my prisoner."

"Yes."

"Well, I ain't sayin' if I'd been the nigger I wouldn't have wanted you to do what you done, but that don't change the facts."

"Facts don't change."

"No sir, they don't. You killed the nigger what was in my custody and I got to arrest you and hold you until the Bluebellies get here. I'll have your pistol, sir. I hope you don't mind, but I've got a job to do."

They sat on the courthouse steps until a vedette of Federal cavalry trotted up Jonesboro's main street. Their captain swung down, shook out stiff legs, and rubbed his buttocks. He glanced at the charred thing that had been a man. His men loosened saddle girths and turned their horses onto the lawn to graze. Ignoring the sleeping drunks, a trooper kicked the fire into flame. The captain wore the aggravated expression of a veteran who'd drawn unpleasant duty. He nodded to the sheriff.

"This here's Rhett Butler," Sheriff Talbot said. "Was him killed the nigger."

"Butler? ... Butler? ... Sir, we've been looking for you. You'll come with us to army headquarters."

"That nigger was in my custody and Butler shot him dead. This is his pistol what done it."

The captain stuck the gun in his belt. "Sheriff, cut that

thing damn

and get it buried."

"I don't know if I can, Captain. The boys hung it up and they'll cut it down. They won't want anyone foolin' with it."

"Sergeant!"

When the sergeant approached, the ravens flew, cawing angrily. The

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sergeant cut the rope with his saber. The thud of Tunis Bonneau hitting the ground settled in Rhett's soul forever.

That afternoon, Rhett Butler rode with the Federal patrol along the Macon and Western Railroad into Atlanta. Burned and exploded railcars had been dragged aside and shiny new rails snaked along the old roadbed.

Central Atlanta was a moonscape of broken walls, toppled chimneys, brick piles, and broken melted machines whose original purposes were unguessable. The Georgia Railroad Bank had been reduced to a broken wall. The Car Shed's great roof was crumpled like a blanket over its ruins. An open-air locomotive round table had been hastily constructed within the roofless circular walls of what had been a roundhouse.

Federal soldiers were everywhere; their tent city overflowed the public square.

While blue-clad soldiers drilled and ex-slaves explored their freedom, Atlantans were rebuilding. Here, men laid reclaimed bricks atop a fire-scorched wall; there, a rickety scaffold held workers setting a keystone in place.

Before Rhett and his escort reached Federal headquarters, the news was out: "Captain Butler's back and he's been arrested."

"Rhett Butler's with a Federal patrol."

The patrol crossed the devastated rail yard into a neighborhood that had escaped the fire.

Rhett had been inside Judge Lyon's house -- now army headquarters -- before the War. The house's Corinthian columns needed paint and the balustrade was gap-toothed where balusters had been ripped out for kindling.

Rhett was escorted past a brace of saluting sentries into what had been the judge's office. Three officers warmed themselves at the fire and a pan-faced first sergeant was writing in the daybook.

He set down his pen. "Who do we have here, Captain?"

"Picked him up in Jonesboro. Rhett Butler. He killed a negro."

An officer came over. "Rhett Butler, Rhett Butler. I'll be.... I'll wager you don't remember me."

Rhett blinked and shook his head.

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"Tom Jaffery. Remember? The field of honor? Charleston? Lord, I was green."

"You're a captain now," Rhett observed.

"Never was good at anything but soldiering." Jaffery paused. "We've been looking for you. Orders straight from the top. 'Bring in Rhett Kershaw Butler.'"

Rhett said. "You've brought me in."

The sergeant inscribed Rhett's name in the daybook and barked, "Hopkins, telegraph the War Department, we've got Butler." He accepted Rhett's wallet and watch, which he absently pocketed.

Tom Jaffery escorted Rhett down the street. "Butler, what have you got yourself into now?"

Firehouse Number Two overlooked the fire scene it had been powerless to prevent. It was still very much a firehouse. Sentries didn't conceal the original purpose of the wide arched doors through which fire engines had come at the gallop while alarm bells were ringing from the squat cupola on the roof.

The engine floor held petty malefactors.

Along the second-floor hallway, a sentry stood before each door. A leather fire helmet hung beside the window of Rhett's small room. An iron bed and deal table completed the furnishings. It was bitter cold.

Jaffery hesitated before saying, "I'm sorry to see you in this fix. Is there anything I can do? Anyone you want told?"

"I'd like writing materials." Rhett paused. "Jaffery, that foggy morning beside the Ashley -- what did you think of us?"

Tom Jaffery said, "I thought you were lunatics. Every one of you."

After the captain departed, the sentry outside Rhett's door settled in his chair, which squeaked when he shifted his weight. From time to time, he coughed.

Rhett laid Tunis's smashed glasses on the table. They might have been some small harmless creature's skeleton. He could see his breath and he clenched his jacket lapels together. Rhett heard the rasp and pop of the match when his sentry lit his pipe. He smelled burning tobacco.

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He heard a thump from the adjoining room when that room's occupant came off his bed. The other prisoner paced back and forth.

Below his high barred window, the moon rose over miles of shadowy ruins. Scavengers scuttled through the razed city, seeking shingles for kindling and scrap iron and brass to sell. Before dawn, Rhett knew several scavengers by their size, their speed, and how they moved from shadow to shadow, but he couldn't tell whether they were black men or white.

A young private with jug ears and a blotchy complexion brought him a bowl of cold oatmeal and the writing materials he'd asked for. When Rhett asked for a second blanket, the boy apologized. "I can't, sir. Orders from the War Department. What did you do to make 'em so mad?"

Rhett jotted a quick note to a Connecticut Senator with whom he had done wartime business. He spent the rest of his morning penning a long letter to Ruthie Bonneau.

Rufus Bullock's luxurious sideburns had been barber-trimmed, and when he sat on Rhett's bed and crossed his legs, his shoes were so new the soles weren't scratched. Bullock's wool overcoat was thick as a horse blanket.

Bullock shook his head heavily. "Rhett, what have you done? Rufus Bullock is a man of consequence in Georgia's Republican party, but Rufus had to beg General Thomas himself for a visit. I came as soon as I could."

"Tunis Bonneau ..." Rhett began.

"They don't care about the negro. They'll only hang you if you force their hand."

"The negro's name was Tunis Bonneau. He was a free black. His family home was on the river below Broughton."

"I've met him. His father-in-law, William Prescott, is prominent. Rhett, the murder charge is a pretext." Rufus peered around the room suspiciously before whispering, "They say you've got the Confederate treasury."

Rhett closed his eyes. "Ah, yes.

That

treasury."

Rufus frowned. "Rhett, this is no laughing matter!"

"Rufus, my friend, it certainly is. The Confederacy never had a treasury.

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All the Confederacy had was a printing press." With some effort, Rhett stayed polite. "You're looking prosperous, Rufus."

"The Republicans want Rufus Bullock to run for governor."

"Ex-Confederates can't hold office."

"I wasn't a Confederate."

"That colonel's commission you held?"

"Honorary, Rhett. Purely honorary. Rufus Bullock never took the Confederate oath. During the war, he represented the Southern Express Company, overseeing freight shipments. If the Confederate government hired the company, how could Rufus refuse? Business is business, is it not?"

"So Rufus, you are a Scalawag."

He puffed out his chest and wagged his finger. "Rufus Bullock is Northern-born!" Rufus chafed his hands. "Cold in here."

"It is."

"Rhett, my friend, please listen. The congressional Republicans Sumner, Blaine, Thad Stevens -- they won't be put off. If you don't want to be hanged for murdering Tunis Bonneau, you'd best be

flexible

about your money."

"Thank you, Rufus. I'm sure you mean it kindly."