The Warriors (24 page)

“Your outbursts are going to make this genuinely unpleasant, ma’am.”

“It couldn’t be any more unpleasant than it already is. You’re
filth!”

Grace turned scarlet. Lifted his hand to hit her, but managed to restrain himself. His voice shook.

“I personally am going to conduct the search for arms and ammunition. Give me your keys.”

Catherine stared at him, her lips moving without sound. Grace raked a palm across his hairless skull. “Goddamn it, I’m losing patience!
Your keys!”

“I—I have them put away in a private place. I’ll have to retire to get them.”

“What private place?”

Now it was her turn to redden.

“I said,
what private place?”

“On”—Jeremiah could barely hear her—“on my person.”

“Oh.” Grace brightened again. “Well, this is wartime. We’re forced to overlook the niceties. Get them out.”

“Not in front of—not while everyone’s—?”

There was sick disbelief in her eyes. Price giggled.

Catherine regained a measure of control. “If I do, will you promise me there’ll be no further damage to the house?”

“I can’t offer any assurances. We’ll definitely torch your barns, your gin house, and corn cribs. As to this building—” Another shrug. “No assurances.”

“Catherine, you’d better give him the keys,” said Serena, a warning note in her voice.

Grace sat down on the gutted sofa, crossing one leg over another, and studying the line of Serena’s hip before he lifted his gaze to her face.

“You’re not only a pretty child—you’re intelligent.” His glance slashed back to Catherine. “Ma’am, I’m waiting.”

“Will you—will you at least allow me to turn my back?”

Grace sighed. “If you must.”

Jeremiah couldn’t stand this much longer. Hooting laughter, the crack of furniture, heavy running and jumping racketed from overhead. Each whoop, each crash, pierced him like an invisible bayonet. What a fool he’d been to think all the Yanks would be as decent as Poppel. He
deserved
the contempt of Grace and the rest.

At least he’d deserved it until this moment. Now all his illusions about humane treatment—decency—the rules of war were vanishing, replaced by a consuming, almost uncontrollable anger stronger than any he’d ever felt before.

His mouth took on that slitted white look. Through one of the piazza windows he could see tents being erected down by the lane, and cook fires blazing. In the drive, another band of blacks in confiscated finery clapped while three young women danced in a circle.

Catherine turned away from the men. She pulled up her outer skirt, then the underskirts of crinoline, corded calico and pleated horsehair. Finally, after much rustling and maneuvering, she dropped the skirts and turned back, tears on her cheeks.

She passed the key bag to Grace just as General Skimmerhorn appeared in the doorway.

“Got most of the foraging started, sir.” He’d exchanged his gunny sack for a wicker-covered jug. He raised the jug and took a long drink. “Anything else we overlooked?”

Grace relayed the question to Price with a lifted brow and a word: “Nigger?”

“A big buck named Leon—he carried three crates of chickens down to the bottom land near the river.”

“Did he now! Well, we certainly wouldn’t want any chicken dinners left on the table. General, another assignment for you.”

Skimmerhorn drank again, scratched his crotch. His eyes slid to Catherine.

“All by myself?”

Grace laughed. “Need a guide, do you? Take her along. See that she’s not mistreated, though. You know Uncle Billy’s instructions—we’re not to harm civilians.”

He winked.

“Yessir,” Skimmerhorn replied with feigned seriousness. “I’ll be right nice to her.”

They all understood: Serena, Jeremiah, and Catherine—who screamed and bolted for the hallway.

Skimmerhorn darted in front of her. Caught her around the waist. “Here, woman, there’s no call for that. I mean to treat you just fine—
Christ!”
he yelped as Catherine’s nails raked his face.

The forager reeled back, three paralled scratches oozing blood on his cheek.

Half crouched, Catherine resembled a trapped animal. Skimmerhorn’s eyes narrowed as she tried to dart past him. The forager hopped to the right, then the left, blocking her. Finally, with a sharp outburst of breath—“Hah!”—he caught her arm and bent it back so she was forced to her knees.

“We’re gonna have a fine time huntin’ them hens, woman. You’re right lively.”

Jeremiah’s control broke.

“You sons of bitches!”
he yelled, charging straight at Skimmerhorn.

P
RICE KICKED THE OTTOMAN
aside and stuck out his leg. Jeremiah failed to see it. He tripped, windmilling his arms as Serena lunged at Skimmerhorn.

The forager backhanded her across the face, sending her sprawling. Jeremiah had a distorted glimpse of the fall just as he recovered his balance. At least she stood up for Catherine when it counted.

He lowered his head and lunged at Major Grace, who had jumped between him and Skimmerhorn. Before Grace could draw his saber, Jeremiah struck him with his shoulder. The impact knocked Grace onto the gutted sofa. The momentum carried Jeremiah forward on top of him. He worked a knee over to the major’s belly and bore down, pounding at the man’s face with wild, hard blows.

“Get him off!” Grace howled, jerking his head from side to side to dodge the punches. Jeremiah lifted his knee, drove it into the officer’s groin.

Grace grunted. Grimaced. Absorbed a glancing blow on his chin, then shoved. The two spilled off the sofa.

Jeremiah fell awkwardly, whacking his head against the sofa’s corner. Dazed, he flopped on his back. He tried to turn over.

Price loomed, planting his muddy feet on either side of Jeremiah’s legs. He raised the Enfield with the muzzle toward the ceiling, then smashed the butt into Jeremiah’s middle.

With a choking cry, Jeremiah tried to twist out of the way and avoid a second blow. Too late. The stock slammed his belly again.

Again—

Price’s face remained expressionless. But not his eyes. He put even more effort into the fourth blow.

Jeremiah rolled all the way over onto his stomach, retching. Grace careened to his feet and booted Jeremiah’s temple, spitting obscenities.

Jeremiah’s forehead dug into the carpet. His back heaved. He heard Catherine’s cries as Skimmerhorn manhandled her out of sight. A moment later he had another impression of movement—Price, gliding out after the forager.

He struggled to raise his belly. Clutched it with his palms. That didn’t ease the pain.

Growling one filthy word after another, Grace stamped on the small of his back.

Jeremiah yelled, his body driven flat. His vision grew more distorted. Fragmented thoughts went screaming through his head.

God, it’s no better here than with the army.

No decency left in this war.

Nothing but meanness.

Meanness and hate
—

In spite of his pain, his own hate was fierce and powerful. But it wasn’t powerful enough to keep him from sinking into darkness.

“Jeremiah?”

Barely conscious, he fought to speak: “Mama? Mama, is that—?”

“Come to your senses! It’s me.” He realized his mistake. Not Fan’s voice. Younger. He’d been watching misty images of Lexington while consciousness returned.

He shifted his position slightly. He was still lying on a floor. Something pricked the underside of his left shoulder.

“Wake up, Jeremiah. You’ve been stretched out there almost two whole hours!”

Wetness on his shirt. At the spot where he’d felt the pricking. He reached for it with his right hand. Bits of glass fell from his sleeve, tinkling on the wood. When he attempted to sit up—an agony—something sharp jabbed his buttocks. His eyes snapped open.

“God! There’s glass all over!”

Serena’s face came into focus. Beyond her, outside the latched window of the first-floor office, a Union soldier stood guard.

With her help, he staggered to his feet, gaping at the carnage. The shelves were bare. Books were strewn everywhere. Some had been ripped in half.

The desk showed eight or ten fresh knife or sword scars. All the drawers had been pulled out and stamped to pieces. The chair had been reduced to kindling.

On the floor near the spot where he’d been lying, he noticed the small oil painting of Lieutenant Colonel Rose, out of its frame, and torn in half. In a corner lay the remnants of another frame, and nearby, the lock of Serena’s bright red baby hair and the card, crumpled.

He stared, disbelieving, while the girl uttered a sad laugh.

“Aren’t they kind? They started their search for arms and ammunition in here.”

“What”—he licked the inside of his mouth, massaged his bruised belly; his dizziness was passing—”what time is it?”

“Two or three o’clock. I’m not sure.”

The office was stifling. He started for the hall entrance.

“Won’t do any good. We’re locked in.”

He leaned his back against the door, picked a long splinter of glass from his trousers, and surveyed the wrecked office again. He was disgusted—sickened—not so much by the damage as by his own failure to prevent it. He’d been unable to exert even the slightest moderating influence on the Yanks.

And after Poppel, he’d been encouraged. He’d really believed the Union soldiers might not be as bad as they’d been painted.

All at once the infuriating sense of failure was replaced by a sharp fear: What if they’d found the Kerr .44 in the attic? What if they’d decided to parade the dress form, as Catherine’s wedding gown had been paraded? What if someone had accidentally discovered the loose plank?

He prayed they hadn’t. Prayed he could get his hands on the Kerr piece before Grace’s cavalry moved on. How pathetic to have thought even briefly that there was any other way to deal with the enemy.

Another memory jolted him. “What’s happened to your stepmother?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was curiously flat. “That—what was the word? Bummer? He dragged her out. I tried to stop him. Grace caught me and put me in here.”

“Then by now she’s been—”

He couldn’t say the rest.

“I expect she’ll live through it.”

Jeremiah’s mouth dropped open. He couldn’t believe the matter-of-fact way in which she’d spoken. Or the emotionless expression on her haggard face. Her dress was disarrayed, her hair too. But she seemed icily composed.

“My God, Serena, is that all you can say—
she’ll live through it?”

“Well, she will! May hurt her Christian conscience some, .but it could be a lot worse. They could shoot her—they aren’t going to do that.”

He supposed Serena’s fatalistic view was logical. But he also suspected there was another reason she wasn’t particularly anxious about her stepmother’s plight. Maybe she was even a little pleased.

Some of his shock must have showed. She cried suddenly, “Jeremiah, they’ve
got
her! We can’t do anything about what’s already happened. Let’s worry about what
might
happen. We’ve got to see the Yanks don’t burn this house, or poison the well. They’re going to fire the cribs and gin house, Grace left no doubt about that. But this building—”

Bitter, he broke in, “What the devil can we do about it?”

“I can talk to Major Grace.”

“Talk?”
He was thunderstruck.

“You heard me. Talk. I called the guard in the hall just before you woke up. Told him to fetch that no-good Yankee son of a bitch right away.”

She tossed her head to rid her brow of a stray lock of scarlet hair. Somehow there was defiance as well as strength in the movement. Her smile grew sweetly vicious.

“’Course, I didn’t use those words. I was polite—well, polite as I
could
be, considering what they’ve done.” She seized his arm as he swayed. “You all right?”

“Yes.” But he was having difficulty standing.

“You look awful.”

“Another five or ten minutes, I’ll be fine.”

“That’s all the time I expect to spend with Grace.”

“Serena, what the devil are you fooling with him for?”

“Why, I’m going to beg him to leave the house alone.”

He was startled, yet impressed by the calculating expression in her blue eyes. She went on.

“He put on a fierce show in the sitting room. Men have to do that—bluster some—in front of other men they boss around. But if I can get him alone—”

The thrust of her idea erased his appreciation of her calm. “You’ve lost your damn mind! Before you came downstairs,
I
tried to reason with him and couldn’t.”

“Reason with him? I’ll bet you sassed him and practically bit his head off. Right in front of his men, too.”

A guilty look said she was right.

“I hate him as much as you do, Jeremiah. But I think he fancies me a little. He sure enough stared at me as if he did. Your tactics didn’t work. Let me try mine.”

Sarcasm in his voice: “You believe nice friendly words and smiles will have an effect on a man like that?”

“Might.” She nodded. Then, piqued: “You have any better suggestions?”

“I suggest you forget the whole idea right now.”

She stamped her foot. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you understand Rosewood may be all we’ll have left after these men move on? We won’t even have Rosewood—or water fit to drink—if one of us doesn’t do
something!”

Her anger blunted his. He let another, deeper concern surface. “But, Serena, that man—he’s a bad sort. The worst.”

“I know what you’re saying.”

“Do you? He could take advantage—”

“You think I don’t appreciate that?”

She rushed to him. One hand touched his sweaty cheek.

“Doesn’t it scare you?”

“’Course it does. But I want to save this house. And I don’t want them to hurt you again. Considering the way you behaved, they might take a notion to do it.”

Part of him responded to her sympathetic tone, but another part resented having someone else fight his battles. He stalked away three steps, crunching glass under his boot.