The Warriors (9 page)

Price folded his arms, waiting. The black’s silence seemed a condemnation of Jeremiah’s weakness.

Voice rasping, Jeremiah said, “Pretty quiet for a weekday.”

“That’s true. Cotton’s all baled. Corn’s in. We’re waitin’ to see what’s goin’ to happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Judge Claypool’s nigger, Floyd, he come rammin’ over in the judge’s buggy yesterday. He said there was Yanks on the march from Atlanta. A whole lot of Yanks.”

The unblinking eyes fixed on Jeremiah. “You see any Yanks while you was comin’ this way?”

Jeremiah shook his head. “But I met some cavalrymen. They said General Sherman’s left the vicinity of the city with sixty—with some men.”

“Well, now!” All at once Price seemed quite interested.

“Don’t get your hopes too high. The cavalry boys didn’t know which route the troops were taking.”

“Judge Claypool’s Floyd, he said Mr. Doremus of Louisville rode back from Milledgeville, an’ when he left, the Yanks was almost there. That was Monday. Could be a mighty interesting Thanksgiving.”

Thick-tongued, Jeremiah repeated, “Thanksgiving?”

“That’s right.” The corner of Price’s mouth quirked up again. Damn the black thief for treating him like a slave instead of a master! “Didn’t you ’member Thanksgiving’s only two days away? We usually have a mighty big dinner for Thanksgiving. Maybe this year, the Yanks’ll roast us instead. What d’you think?”

“I think you better shut up with jokes like that.”

Price chuckled. “Yes, sir.”

Jeremiah had completely forgotten the holiday. The amused gaze of the slave irritated him. He was willing to bet Price would love exactly the sort of Thanksgiving he’d described. Price would probably help the damn Yanks overrun Rosewood—using the Enfield he’d stolen.

The brief happiness he’d felt at finally reaching his destination was fading, driven from his mind by the black’s silent contempt and the knowledge that he still had to inform the colonel’s wife about her widowhood. He assumed she didn’t know, and he didn’t look forward to telling her. It would require tact; the proper words, a clear head. And his head was anything but clear. His ears buzzed; his eyes watered; his legs felt boneless. He wondered how much longer he could stay on his feet.

“My,” Price murmured, evidently still thinking of Sherman. “We could sure have a real jubilee of a Thanksgiving round here—” Then, with a touch of impatience: “We can go inside whenever you feelin’ up to it.”

He wasn’t, but he said, “I’m feeling up to it.”

Price bobbed his head, leading him to the rear entrance.

As they stepped across the threshold, Price underwent an abrupt and noticeable transformation. He seemed to lose two or three inches in height. He bent his head forward slightly. His step became slower. The buck was trickier than old Billy Sherman himself!

They walked down a cool, dim hall smelling of furniture oil and more faintly of roasting sweet potatoes. Price’s posture gave him an almost servile look. He knocked at an open doorway on the left. Immediately, Jeremiah heard a firm feminine voice.

“Come.”

Dreading the encounter with Mrs. Rose, Jeremiah walked unsteadily toward the door as Price disappeared, scraping his bare feet in what was almost a shuffle.

The light in the small, cluttered office had a hazy quality. The polished oak floor seemed to tilt. Price stood between Jeremiah and the woman at the desk. He couldn’t see much of her except for a skirt, but he did glimpse objects on the desk. Open ledgers. A pen laid aside. A large ring with a dozen or more keys on it. A cut glass goblet half full of something that looked like fruit wine. Blackberry, he decided.

“Yes, Price, what is it?”

The slave deliberately thickened his speech. “Miz Catherine, I found this yere officer lyin’ sick down in the swamp beyond the bottom. He come to find you—”

Blinking to clear his vision, Jeremiah quickly took in the details of the office. Two walls were entirely covered with shelves crowded with books. On the spine of one he recognized a design his mother had shown him once: a gold stamping of a partially filled and stoppered bottle—the mark of the publishing house of Kent and Son, owned by the despised Northern branch of the family.

Near the ledgers on the desk stood a small oil painting depicting a sad-eyed, sandy-bearded man. Rose. Beside it was an even smaller frame with a curling lock of bright red hair sealed under glass above a small square card. On the card in ink that had long ago faded, someone had written:

Serena was Rose’s daughter by his first marriage. The colonel had alluded to the marriage several times, but never discussed it in any detail—nor his former wife. Jeremiah had gotten the impression that Serena’s mother must have been the wrong sort. Rose was close-mouthed about her, in contrast to his constant praise of Catherine.

He’d said Catherine was a woman of warm, loving temperament—the closest a gentleman ever came to admitting his wife had a passionate streak. He described her as intelligent and trusting of her fellow human beings, willing to believe only the best about them—including the slaves—but not lacking the strength to take action if her original opinion proved wrong. Jeremiah was going to have to warn this paragon of womanhood about Price.

Dimly, he realized Price was still speaking with a slurry politeness quite different from his earlier rude mockery.

“—poor officer, he lost his gun during the night. Those trash niggers of Judge Claypool’s who fish round here probably picked it off him. I think we ought to report it to the judge right quick. We sure don’t want no niggers with muskets runnin’ loose—’specially with them Yanks on the way like this officer says.”

Damned liar,
Jeremiah thought. But his throat was too dry to utter the accusation. Besides, the most important matter at the moment was the news about Rose and the letter.

Price stepped back politely as the woman stood up.

“Good morning, young man.” Catherine Rose extended her hand, unconcerned about the mud on Jeremiah’s fingers.

The colonel’s widow was a handsome woman in her forties, with broad hips, a slim waist, and full breasts tightly bound by a faded gingham dress. She had a generous mouth set in an oval face, and intelligent, direct gray eyes. On her cheek just to the right of her lips was a tiny mole, like a punctuation mark. Her light brown hair was beginning to whiten.

The hand grasping Jeremiah’s was neither soft nor smooth. “Price says you want to see me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rose. My name’s Corporal Kent—”

Recognition widened her eyes. “Henry’s orderly! He wrote about you once. And in a highly complimentary fashion. You don’t look well,” she added with a quick frown.

“I’m fine, ma’am.”

“But Price said he found you unconscious.”

“Just sleeping, that’s all.”

Skeptically, she surveyed him. The odor of fruit wine was unmistakable. “You’re pale as death. Skinny, too.”

“I was hurt in action near Atlanta.”

“Good heavens, you’ve come all the way from
Atlanta?”

“Yes.” His hand groped for the oilskin pouch. “Before I left, your husband gave me a letter to deliver. My home’s Virginia, but I promised him I’d bring this to you.”

He handed her the pouch. Tears filled her eyes.

Then Catherine Rose seemed angry at her own weakness. She dashed a hand against her cheek. She began to examine the pouch as if it were some kind of holy article. A wistful, affectionate smile softened her face. Jeremiah could understand why Rose had spoken highly of her.

Come to think of it, Rose had been lavish in complimenting both his women. While Mrs. Rose opened the pouch, Jeremiah recalled a rare moment of comradeship when Rose had rambled for a while about his daughter’s relationship with her stepmother.

Rose had said his wife lavished every attention on the child of that first marriage. Yet the colonel believed his daughter somehow considered herself Catherine’s rival for his affection. She was a good child, Rose said. High-spirited, but with a certain reserve that made it extremely difficult for him to ever know what she was thinking. The rivalry between mother and stepdaughter was only suspected, never overt or disruptive. Catherine’s affection and forbearance prevented that.

One other detail about Mrs. Rose slipped into his mind—the woman was a transplanted Yankee. It was apparent after she glanced briefly at the letter without reading it. He detected a faint nasal quality in her voice that was distinctly un-Southern.

“You were very kind to bring me this, Corporal Kent. You’ve seen my husband recently?”

Jeremiah’s forehead burned.

“Yes, ma’am. Fairly recently. He gave me the letter at Jonesboro, before General Sherman took Atlanta.”

“Jonesboro?” She whispered it. “Jonesboro was in late August.”

“Ma’am, haven’t—haven’t you received any word about him yourself?”

“Not for weeks. And we’ve had only scattered reports of the disasters the armies encountered.” A tolerant smile. “Henry was never too faithful about writing letters home. Sometimes, before he left, I practically had to force him to pick up a pen to write someone on business. Or when a special occasion absolutely demanded a letter. A birth in the family of one of his relatives. A death—”

Her hand closed on the pouch and letter. She looked at Jeremiah. “Oh, dear Lord in heaven. He’s dead. That’s why you’re here—”

“I—” Somehow he couldn’t get the words out.

“That’s why you’ve traveled so far.”

Overcome, Jeremiah could only swallow and nod.

Catherine Rose dropped the letter and pouch. She walked around him, unsteadily, but without hurrying. At the door she called, “Serena?”

“He wrote the letter a night or two before he took a ball in the Jonesboro action—” Jeremiah began.

Clutching the doorframe, Catherine Rose raised her voice slightly. “Serena? Come down!”

“—he saved my life. After the”—Jeremiah realized he was rambling, but he couldn’t help himself—“after the surgeons said they couldn’t do anything for him, he begged me to bring that letter to you. I swore I would.”

“Serena!”

She struck one frustrated blow on the jamb of the door. Then she clenched her fist and lowered it to her side as if it were a separate living organism she had to fight. The ringing in Jeremiah’s ears turned to a high, windy whine. Without warning, his legs gave out.

He started to tumble forward. With quick action, Price could have caught him. The black didn’t move.

Arms folded across his huge chest, Price watched the young soldier fall. Jeremiah had a swift impression of Price’s eyes. Malicious. Amused. But the slave’s “Oh, my!” had had an appropriately alarmed sound.

Jeremiad’s jaw slammed on the polished oak floor. He heard an exclamation from Mrs. Rose. Running footsteps—Serena hurrying to the office?

The footfalls grew softer instead of louder. The roar in his ears drowned them out. Gasping, he flopped over on his back, his mind a jumble of frantic thoughts.

Sherman’s on the way.

That black bastard’s got my Enfield.

She’ll be too upset to pay any mind.

But I’ve got to warn
—

Darkness cut off the rest.

H
E WOKE AT TWILIGHT
, in a bedroom at the second floor front.

He lay awhile in the high bed, reflecting that perhaps he was beginning to mend. His belly didn’t ache quite so badly. The ear trouble and dizziness had left him. Best of all, he felt clean.

His filthy uniform had disappeared. He wore a man’s flannel nightshirt which because of his height reached only to his knees. A flush burned his cheeks when he realized someone had undressed and washed him and re-bandaged his leg wound with new, spotless linen. He hoped it had been one of the nigra women he’d seen around the place.

Downstairs, voices murmured. He swung his legs off the edge of the bed, stretching luxuriously. He was stiff. Still a mite feverish, too. But he was astonished to discover he was hungry.

When he stood up, barefoot on the smooth, pegged floor, he felt a familiar pressure. He located the chamber pot in a corner. The china surface was decorated with a hand-painted scroll bearing the words
A Salute to Old Spoons.

Spoons? He studied the pot, then recalled the man to whom the word referred. He laughed for the first time in longer than he could remember.

He picked up the pot, lifted the lid and looked inside. On the bottom, the artist had enameled a man’s portrait. Jeremiah recognized the puffy cheeks, drooping mustache, and cocked eye of the infamous Beast Butler, the military governor of conquered New Orleans. Butler had earned the South’s hatred with a regulation specifying that any New Orleans gentlewoman caught showing disrespect to the occupying troops would be dealt with as if she were a prostitute. Sometimes the Beast was called Old Cockeye. He’d also been called Spoons because he’d reportedly plundered silverware from the city’s finer houses. Jeremiah replaced the pot on the floor, pulled up his nightshirt, and cheerfully pissed on old Spoons.

He was just replacing the lid when he heard steps in the hall. Hastily he clambered back into bed. A knock was followed by a respectful, “Sir?”