The Warriors (22 page)

Jeremiah let out a long breath. “Well, I’m sorry I blew off a minute ago. You seem to be sticking by your bargain.”

An offended tone: “Did you think I would not?”

“I hoped you would.” Fervently: “More than you can appreciate.” Jeremiah rolled his shoulders forward. Twisted his head from side to side. Suppressed a yawn. “Lord, I’m tired.”

“Quite understandable.” Poppel nodded.

“Captain, considering what you said about more soldiers coming, maybe you could return my knife. It’s all I have to defend this place.”

“There’s no
defending
possible, Mister Secesh,” another voice interrupted in a laconic way. The heavyset sergeant had strolled onto the piazza and was leaning against one of the lattices. Jeremiah heard wood crack. The sergeant didn’t move, adding, “Uncle Billy’s going all the way to the ocean. We got this whole fucking state by the tail.”

“That’s quite enough, Meister,” Poppel said. “Stay where I put you—in the drive!”

Scowling, the sergeant stalked off. When he was out of earshot, Poppel leaned close. “I gave your knife to Stock. A souvenir to promote his cooperation. Have you ever led men?”

“No.”

“Well, it is not entirely a matter of force and bluster. Sometimes you must drive them, but sometimes you must also appease them. I have learned that with difficulty. Now concerning your question—”

Catherine reappeared, key ring jingling. She’d evidently retired to remove the ring from the bag tied under her skirts. She handed the keys to Poppel and returned to her chair.

“Search all you want. Just don’t touch personal things.”

“I’ll go with him,” Jeremiah offered.

He’d spoken loudly enough for the sergeant to hear. The man exclaimed, “Hell, no. You got no say in this!”

Again Poppel’s upraised hand stopped him. “Meister, shut your mouth. He may come.”

For an hour the three ranged the house and surrounding area, Jeremiah holding a lamp while the sergeant guarded him with a drawn revolver and Poppel unlocked drawers in the office, trunks in the attic, and the new padlocks on the outbuildings. Presently Jeremiah grew less uneasy. Poppel was acting with great restraint.

In the attic, for example, he discovered the thousand dollars’ worth of Confederate bills and the legal papers in the trunk. He examined everything, but replaced all the items carefully and saw that the trunk was once again locked. Again Jeremiah began to feel a touch of optimism. If Poppel proved to be the harshest officer with whom they had to deal, honorable treatment of the women of Rosewood might not be such a far-fetched idea after all.

Sometime after one in the morning, Poppel completed his search and dismissed the sergeant. The captain confessed to a thirst for coffee. He and Jeremiah-headed for the house while the sergeant trudged back toward the campsite, where the little candles still flickered in bayonet rings, and loud voices sang a marching song:

“Hurrah, boys, hurrah!

Down with the traitor, up with the star!”

In the kitchen, Jeremiah was surprised to discover Serena seated at the table, a cup of tea in front of her. The Union captain swept off his dusty campaign hat, even bowed.

“Madam. Franz Poppel.”

“Miss Serena Rose, Captain,” Jeremiah said.

“Delighted!” the captain said. Serena didn’t reply.

“Where’ve you been?” Jeremiah asked her.

“In my room.” A glance at Poppel. “Couldn’t stand to watch any damn Yankees pawing through everything.”

“Captain Poppel’s been very decent,” Jeremiah countered, moving around Maum Isabella, who was tending the huge iron stove. A spicy smell rose from the oven. “You baking gingerbread?”

“That’s right,” the tiny black woman answered. “I figured that if we give the soldiers a little something extra, they might go away and leave us be.”

“We’ll go away in any case.” Poppel nodded. “But I’m grateful for the kindness.” His eyes rested briefly on Serena’s profile. “There are many more men coming, however.”

The girl looked at Jeremiah. But he was too weary to interpret whatever she meant to ask or imply. Poppel continued to shoot covert looks at her while Maum Isabella brought the coffee to a boil, poured a mug, and set it down on the table with a faintly insolent thud. Abruptly, Serena excused herself and left.

“I wonder if Mr. Kent and I might have a word in private?” Poppel asked the black woman.

Expressionless, Maum Isabella walked out. Poppel sat down. No one had offered him a seat before.

“That red-haired girl—she’s quite handsome.”

Jeremiah managed a smile. “Í don’t need a Yank to tell me that.”

Poppel craned around, looking through the doorway leading to the front of the house. He took another sip of coffee, then leaned forward.

“Permit me to make you an offer, Mr. Kent.”

“What kind of offer?”

“Kindly keep your voice down! Mrs. Rose—she is handsome but not young. However, that redhead—” Tired as he was, the captain could still sigh appreciatively. “Lovely. Now listen carefully. I was quite serious when I said there are undisciplined men with the army. And I cannot return your knife. However, in the morning, I will go up to the attic again. For one more search.”

“You already searched it top to bottom!”

“Young man, are you witless?”

“I’m worn-out. I don’t know what the hell you’re saying.”

Another swift look toward the door. “Up in the attic, I can hand you a spare revolver I happen to have in my kit. You should keep it hidden. Because of that girl.”

“I see. I’m sorry I was so thick.”

“No matter.” Poppel waved. “We have reached an understanding. I would not want anything on my conscience. Such as leaving you wholly unprotected, should other units pass this way.”

He drained the mug. “I have two daughters of my own back in Missouri, you see. Sixteen and eighteen. If our positions were reversed, yours and mine, I hope you would do as I am doing.”

“Yes, sir, I’d try.”

“The attic, then. Tomorrow morning. But if you reveal a word of my offer to anyone, I withdraw it.”

He stood, picked up his dusty hat, and clumped out of the kitchen. Belatedly, Jeremiah called after him, “Captain? Thank you.”

A slight hesitation in the captain’s step showed the words had been heard.

At dawn, Captain Franz Poppel’s woodcutters and road builders assembled on the highway while the drovers prodded the confiscated livestock to their feet in the field where they’d bedded for the night.

A portion of the white fence separating the plantation from the road had been smashed by the soldiers, but there was no other visible damage. Two more hogs were hauled from the pens, shot, and their carcasses trussed and flung into the white-topped cook wagon. Corn from one of the cribs was loaded next. Then Poppel staged his little show, announced a search of a corner of the attic he claimed to have overlooked. No help needed—he would see to it personally.

Alone with Jeremiah, Poppel slipped his hand beneath his blouse. He drew out a stained rag wrapped around something with the unmistakeable contours of a revolver. He pulled the rag away, revealing the dirt-speckled gun.

“Take it, Kent. It’s a rebel piece anyhow.”

The attic was dark and warm; Jeremiah was sweating. Gingerly, he lifted the revolver from Poppel’s palm.

The gun measured about thirteen inches, muzzle to butt, and had seen hard use. The feel of the metal sent a shiver up his back. For the first time since he’d awakened to find Price standing over him, he felt whole again.

“Where’d you get this, Captain?”

“I confiscated it at Resaca. From a dead man.”

“Never seen one like it.”

“Imported model. A Kerr piece, .44-caliber. We do not use them.”

Squinting, Jeremiah examined the cylinder. “Five-shot. Four shots left.

“None in the chamber, of course. It’s double-action, by the way. I am sorry I have no spare ammunition.”

“Four shots are better than none.”

“I advise you to hide it well,” Poppel said.

Jeremiah pondered a moment, then began to roam through the attic’s clutter. At every step he tested the planking by putting his weight on his right leg. At last, back in a corner, he discovered a loose board.

He knelt, tugged at one edge. The pegs had rotted. The end of the board lifted easily. He slipped the Kerr .44 down between the joists, then replaced the plank. As a further precaution, he moved a sheet-draped dress form from another corner to a point just in front of the hiding place.

“Excellent spot,” Poppel observed. “I doubt any looter would trouble to rip up an attic floor.” He started out.

“Captain?”

“Yes, Mr. Kent?”

“I’m honestly sorry for a couple of the things I said to you.”

The captain smiled without humor. “Contrary to what you may have been led to believe, Mr. Kent, not all Northern men are ravening beasts. I only hope you have no reason to need that weapon.”

For two hours after Poppel’s engineers had tramped on, Rosewood was relatively quiet. Jeremiah hoped the worst was over.

Catherine had retired to her room for a nap, complaining of being unable to sleep during the night. Serena had also vanished again. But he was too tense to rest.

He sat in the kitchen drinking coffee with Maum Isabella, who told him tartly, “Those bad-mannered Yanks ate every last bite of gingerbread without so much as a thank you. No, I take that back. One said it. One of the very first. He also asked for a plate and laid a coin in it. Nobody else paid, though. And a man at the end of the line picked up the coin, slipped it in his pocket, and walked out grinning big as you please.”

“Well, we’re still fortunate to have gotten off so light—” Down at the gate, the bell began clanging.

By the time Jeremiah reached the piazza, Catherine was at the foot of the staircase, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She joined him outside as horsemen came thundering up the lane. Blue-coated horsemen. Some of the coats were no better than rags.

Dust billowed behind the riders, making it difficult for Jeremiah to determine how many there were. Across the fields toward the river, he could see infantrymen moving. Hundreds of them, trampling the furrows. A long line of wagons stretched from the woods down the highway. The countryside was covered by men moving on foot and in the white tops, covered—like a land suffering a biblical plague.

The cavalrymen reining up in front of Rosewood looked more like riffraff than soldiers. New riders arrived every few seconds, barely visible in the dust.

Their commander was a man in his late thirties, with sallow skin, thin arms and legs, and the beginnings of a paunch. His eyes were the color of dried mud.

Head on, his face resembled a pear, bulging below the ears. A half-moon of fat hung beneath his stubbled chin. He greeted Jeremiah and Catherine with a mocking touch of his hat brim, then addressed them in a nasal voice unpleasant to ears accustomed to mellower Southern speech.

“Your servant. Major Ambrose Grace of the Eighth Indiana, General Kilpatrick’s Third Cavalry Division.”

“The Kill-cavalry,” Jeremiah said.

A purse-lipped smile twitched the major’s mouth. “Sometimes we’re complimented with that term, yes.”

Suddenly, laughing men shied their mounts aside. Jeremiah groped for the support of one of the white pillars when he saw a black on a mule jogging out of the dust cloud. Catherine drew a breath, loud and sharp.

Price tugged the mule to a stop beside the commanding officer.

“This here’s the place I was tellin’ you about when I met up with you last night, sir,” Price said. “Plenty of good things on this place—an’ I know where every one of ’em is hid. I’ll help you get ’em all,” he added, reaching down to grasp the Enfield musket lying across his thighs.

A bit of red clay clung to the stock. The cartridge box hung from the black’s rope belt.

“Damn you,” Jeremiah said. “You had it after all.”

Price’s blue-black face wrenched into a chilling smile.

“Did you really think I didn’t, mister soldier? Or that I wouldn’t come back an’ use it?”

J
EREMIAH TOOK A STEP
toward Price. With his attention centered on the black man, he only heard the slither of metal on metal as Major Grace pulled his saber and extended his arm.

“Hold on!”

Jeremiah found himself blocked by the blade. The point touched his shirt. The major twisted the sword slightly. The point pierced cloth, pricking Jeremiah’s chest.

With mock seriousness, the major added, “I can’t have you threatening one of our most valuable informants.”

Furious, Jeremiah yearned to reach up and knock the saber aside. But if he did, he’d probably be gutted on the spot.

Some of the cavalrymen snickered as he stood motionless. The laughter as much as called him a coward. Humiliated, he promised himself he’d get back at them—every one.

Catherine appeared more shaken than he’d ever seen her. Her voice was barely audible as she spoke to the slave with the Enfield. “How could you do this? My husband always treated you decently. So did I.”

Price’s brown eyes brimmed with animosity. “I don’ call bein’ kept as property decent treatment.”

“But we always tried to take good care of our—”

“Your little bitch stepdaughter took care of me, all right,” he broke in. “She took care of me with the whip, her an’ Leon. They tried to make me tell about this here gun.”

“They did no such thing!”

Price shrugged. “She never told you, that’s all. Miz Serena, she ain’t just mean, she’s a sneak.”

“You foul-mouthed bastard!” Jeremiah cried. Only Ambrose Grace’s blade pressing into his breastbone kept him from lunging.

“That’s enough,” Grace said to him. To Price: “You mean to say there’s another white female on these premises?”

“Yes, sir. Mighty fetching little piece, too. She might strike your fancy,” the black added with a quick smile.

“Have to look into that,” Grace murmured. Catherine fisted her hands. Jeremiah’s belly hurt.

Grace gigged him again. “Would you kindly step back so I can dismount? I’d like to conduct our business as politely as possible.”