Seven

You men help yourselves to apples in the bins while waiting your turn.” Mr. Maynard didn’t see me, didn’t know I was there, among the men.

The deep voice ordered the other men to move ahead. “I’ll tend our insurance policy,” he whispered and pushed me down against a cellar wall, roping my feet and tying my hands behind my back again. I saw the outline of his face for the first time. He was about Cousin Albert’s height, a similar build. I might be able to take him on if I could get loose—if we were alone, now, before good food and sleep got his strength back.

“This way, men.” Two men followed Mr. Maynard up a cellar ladder. “Oh.” Mr. Maynard turned back. “Which of you is McCain?”

“I’m McCain.” The deep voice stood, grew suddenly respectful. This was the man Cousin Albert meant for me to give his Testament.

Two of the prisoners moved to stand between McCain and me. I couldn’t see Mr. Maynard’s face.

“There’s a boy I sent with bread for the prisoners—bread with money and our address baked inside. He’s not returned. Do you know what happened to him?”

“We’ll have to talk about that,” McCain said. “Why do you ask me?”

“Your man that came for us was wearing the boy’s clothes. He said I’d have to ask you what became of him. Said the boy loaned him his clothes so he could come out disguised as a visitor. He said the boy stayed on Pea Patch for the night, as a favor to Col. Mitchell’s men. I don’t know as I believe that.” Mr. Maynard’s footsteps started down the ladder. “He’s a good boy, McCain. You wouldn’t be here but for him. There’d best be no harm come to him.”

“No harm’s come to him, sir.” McCain stepped toward him. “We’ll have a talk later, in private.”

Mr. Maynard hesitated. “All right, then.” Footsteps disappeared up the ladder. The door closed behind him.

McCain’s foul breath spat against my face. “Leaving you on Pea Patch was my first choice. Killing you now would be my second. For some reason you’ve got good friends, and that makes you very, very lucky. But if it wasn’t for you, Col. Mitchell would be alive and here with us now. So your skin doesn’t mean very much to me. You remember that. Anytime you think of making a commotion or slowing us down, you remember that.” He pulled back. “Keep this Yank out of my sight.”

I turned my head and closed my eyes. Cousin Albert was dead. I leaned my throbbing head against the wall, trying to take that in, to make sense of all that had happened. The cold and damp crept into my bones, made my muscles ache. Voices roused me again.

“We can’t take him with us! We’ll have to watch him every second. That, by itself, will give us away.”

“Well, we can’t very well leave him behind, now, can we?” the Irish brogue pitched in. “He’ll get past this soft old couple in no time, and the Federals will be on us as well as them!”

“I’d like to lynch the lit—”

“You know you can’t do that, Sarge. His safety was the colonel’s dying wish. You saw it in his own writing. He’s his flesh and blood. You can’t get past that! Not a man here would stand for it. We’ll have to split up.”

“We’d have to split up anyway. Ten men can’t travel together without rousing suspicion,” a new voice said.

“Let him go with me,” a younger voice spoke up.

“With you? How far would the two of you get?”

“I think we’d do all right. Two boys—alone. Nobody’d know I’m a Reb.” It was the one-legged boy with his trouser leg pinned to his hip, the prison boy who’d asked me to thank the lady for the bread.

“He might have something there, Sarge.”

“If he squeals you’ll never see your home or mother again, Gibbons. You know that, don’t you? That boy didn’t help us out of the goodness of his heart. He’ll be madder than a hornet, out for revenge. The rest of you men split up and go first. Gibbons and I’ll wait a day and go together.”

“He won’t squeal.”

McCain laughed. “And what makes you think that? What makes you think he won’t leave you in some ditch to rot, crippled and alone, while he runs off and calls the law on all of us?”

“He wouldn’t have brought us bread.” I could barely hear the boy’s answer.

“What?”

He spoke up. “He wouldn’t have brought us bread if he had no mercy, sir. He didn’t have to do that.” No one answered. “I trust him. Col. Mitchell trusted him. And who would believe I’m a dangerous, escaped prisoner?”

“Forget it, Gibbons. I—”

The door at the top of the ladder opened. “Next!” Mr. Maynard’s voice called down.

“Wilson—take Gibbons up,” McCain ordered.

“Right! Climb up, my friend.”

“You go on, sir. I’d just as soon wait a bit,” the boy answered.

“I’ll not have you letting him go, Gibbons,” McCain threatened.

“I won’t, sir. I swear it. I’ll just wait beside him and see what I think about us traveling together.”

McCain seemed satisfied. “Well, I’m going. I’m ready to pitch these rags.”

The door closed. That left the Irish brogue, who was wearing my clothes, and Gibbons, the one-legged boy who trusted me. I feigned sleep.

“And what will you do if he leaves you for dead somewhere, meboy-o?”

“I’ll pray that God will make a way of escape, just like this time.”

“You’re too trustin’ for your own good. It’ll be the undoin’ of you.”

“Hello?” Mrs. Maynard’s voice came from the top of the ladder. “Anyone still down there?”

“A couple of us, ma’am,” the brogue answered.

“Can one of you give me a hand?”

“Right away!” He was on his feet in a second and up the stairs.

“Are you awake?” Gibbons whispered.

I opened my eyes.

“Lean forward.” He pulled the rags loose from my mouth. I let out a heave that made my chest ache.

“Thanks. Thanks.” I choked. “Can you get this package out of my coat? It’s weighing hard on me.”

Gibbons pulled the pouch from my jacket. “I’m sorry for what’s happened to you. But I’m grateful for all you did to get us out.”

“I didn’t get you out. I was tricked.” He didn’t answer. “Is Cousin Albert—Col. Mitchell—really dead?”

Gibbons nodded. “Word came through the barracks during mess. He died this afternoon—yesterday now. The guards told us. I’m sorry.”

I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t settle how I felt about any of it.

“It wasn’t your fault, no matter what Sgt. McCain says. Colonel had consumption, had it long already.”

Still I couldn’t answer.

“I’ll do all I can to help you out of this fix. But I’ve got to be able to trust you. My name is Wooster Gibbons—Pvt. Gibbons.” I stared at him a time, not sure I should trust him.

“Robert Glover.” The words came out of my mouth, and he nodded. “Did you mean what you said about us running together?” I’d have agreed to anything to get away from McCain.

Wooster nodded, then half grinned. “But I’m not likely to do much running. We’d have to travel south like you’re my brother, or something—helping me out.” He dipped his head. “But I’ll have to get Sgt. McCain to agree. He might. He’s not likely to want me slowing him down.”

“Untie me?” I’d find a way to run once I was loose.

Wooster hedged. “If I do that Sgt. McCain won’t trust us together. I’ll do my best to talk him into untying you. If he doesn’t, I’ll make sure the man and lady upstairs knows you’re down here—soon as I can get time alone with either one of them. I swear it.”

The upstairs door opened.

“Duck your head. Pretend you’re sleeping,” Wooster whispered.

“Right, Gibbons. It’s your turn. How’s our prisoner?” the brogue called down the stairs.

“Still sleeping,” Wooster answered, knotting my gag in place, but looser this time.

“Good. We’ll leave him till later.” The brogue reached the bottom of the ladder. “Climb up, then. You’re going to love this hot bath, me boy-o. Tis a bit o’ heaven.” There was some shuffling. The brogue leaned down, and Wooster leaned into his back. He hoisted Wooster and disappeared up the ladder, as if he carried nothing. The door closed behind them.

“A way of escape. A way of escape,” I prayed. They were Wooster’s words, but I needed them now. “I don’t know what else to pray for. I can’t believe Cousin Albert did this—or that he’s dead.” And then I thought of Emily, and Ma. How would I get to them?

What about Mr. Heath? He didn’t even know where I was. I wished I’d told him where I was, who I was stopping with. And then I could have kicked myself. I’d told him I was leaving straight for Ashland, not to worry if I was gone long. He’d have no reason to send someone looking for me, not now. By the time he did it might be too late. I’d be gone south with these prisoners or, if McCain had his way, left for dead somewhere. I had to trust that the Maynards would find me, help me.

I don’t know how many hours passed. I heard footsteps above me, doors opened and closed. The chill and damp of the cellar set deeper in my bones. I twisted and pulled, trying to pry the ropes from my wrists, but it was no use. I just pulled the knots tighter, dug the ropes deeper into raw skin.

My mind drifted to Granny Struthers, and her salve for rope burns, the salve I couldn’t imagine needing because I’d never had rope burns. I’d give anything to be sitting in Granny’s cabin now, watching her strip leaves from herbs or mix remedies or sing the old chants she’d learned from her Cherokee husband. And then I was there, floating over her cabin, staring into her fire, sleeping in her loft, breathing her cures, listening to William Henry urge, “Hold on. Hold on, now,” all the while crows picked at my eyes, my arms, my feet.

I woke with a start, tried to steady my heart, my breath, but couldn’t stop the shakes. I didn’t remember ever being so cold, sweating so hard.

The lantern burned itself out, the dark complete. Faintly, a rooster crowed. Daylight must have come, but I couldn’t see it in the cellar. Thirst set in, then hunger.

I figured Wooster had lied to me, or they wouldn’t let him come. I called into the rag, hoping the Maynards would come. But no sound came out. My throat was swollen, nearly shut, and raw sore. I inched my way across the floor, rocked side to side till I knocked a crock off the barrel, sent it crashing to the floor, prayed they’d hear it. But nobody came.

Hours passed. Sleep pulled at me again. I fought it, but it pulled, and pulled, and then I wanted only to sink into it, to slide away, to dream of something else. But all my dreams flared into nightmares—running, chasing, guns blasting past my head, bayonets flashing in the sun, and more crows pecking at my eyes. The horrors kept on and on, spaced only by dark, slime-covered tunnels that ran on without end.

“Robert! Robert!” a woman’s worried voice pulled me up, up. “Can you hear me, son?” It was Mrs. Maynard.

“I’m not your son,” I mumbled.

She started to laugh, then cry. “No, you’re not. But thank God you’re awake.” I couldn’t pry my eyes open. “Wooster! Wooster, he’s awake!” she shouted.

I heard the thump, thump of Wooster’s crutch on the floor. A body bumped mine. I fell through air when the bed ropes sagged. “Hallelujah! We figured you were a goner!” It was Wooster’s voice but stronger than I’d heard before. “You’ve been out two weeks! It’s about time we got a look at your ugly face!”

I forced my eyes open. It was like a homecoming. “Where am I?”

“You’re in Wooster’s room at our boarding house, Robert.” Mrs. Maynard pulled a quilt to my neck. “You’ve been down with a fever. Wooster’s not left your side these two weeks.”

And then I remembered. I forced my eyes open. “McCain?”

“Don’t you worry. That horrid man is gone, and none too soon! Only I’m sorry to say he stole your Mr. Heath’s horse. We had no idea what a scoundrel he was!

“Thank the Lord Wooster begged us to check the cellar, just to make sure Sgt. McCain hadn’t lied about you running off. We just couldn’t believe you’d have run off without your horse. It made no sense—but we never knew you’d been locked in that cellar.

“We’re so very sorry we got you into this, Robert. I hope you can believe that. I hope you will believe it.”

I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to think about it.

“That’s it. You sleep on. It’s just what you need. We’ll talk later.”

But we didn’t. My dreams came and went, light and shadow. Voices flew in and out of my head. Fevers raged and died and raged again. The only thing that stayed the same was Wooster’s voice and the far-off sound of a bird I couldn’t name, inside and outside my dreams. There were days I’d wake, and the air around me seemed still, the height and heat of summer. Then nights would pass, and I’d hear William Henry calling my name, sometimes a deep-down sadness in his voice, sometimes urging me to stand up and take hold. I’d hear Granny Struthers, “Go on, now. Work’s not done.”

And Emily, “Robert? Robert, are you coming?”

Sometimes the sun baked and pricked my face, but I couldn’t open my eyes, couldn’t turn my head, even when I felt the flies land on my cheek, walk against my nose.

Later I stared up into branches, all the russets and golds and scarlets of autumn flitting past in patches. I knew I rode flat, laid out in a wagon bed. I heard the cracking of whips, shouting of orders, and the honking and braying of mules, hundreds of mules, the smell beyond reckoning. Something in my mind recalled the mule training camp at Perryville. I figured I was not five miles from home, from Laurelea. I imagined Aunt Sassy’s worried face looking down on me, her bronze hand cooling my brow, a cool vinegar rag mopping my face. Content, knowing I was going home, I slept.

But it was another trick, or a dream. Home never came. Sometimes I felt myself tugged, lifted, or knew water was forced down my throat till I choked. Once I smelled water, felt the rocking sides of a small boat, heard the ragged whispers of two men.

“We’ve got to get across ‘fore daylight.”

“Why didn’t you just take them across on the ferry by wagon?”

“The boy’s beginnin’ to stir. Who knows what he’ll say in his state? We can’t risk it.”

“Hush! I hear horses.”

I heard them, too, and orders shouted, but through a fog. And then a familiar voice in my ear.

“Don’t worry, Robert. I’m still here. I’ll get you home. We’re crossin’ the Potomac now.” But it wasn’t William Henry, and it wasn’t a dream. Because I knew William Henry was dead, and the voice in my ear was Wooster’s.

When I woke next I forced my eyes wide and stared up at a gray sky and bare, black, rain-wet branches. Even flat on my back, behind a buckboard, a raw wind cut through my jacket. I tried to roll over, but my body still carried a lead weight. Voices came from over my head; the first one I didn’t recognize.

“There’s a good hospital in Richmond. We’ll leave him there. It’s the best we can do.”

“I can’t leave him. I promised. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.” It was Wooster’s voice.

“You’ll not be welcome anywhere. Nobody wants the typhus brought to their door.”

“He’s getting better. His fever’s broke a week now. He just needs to muster his strength.”

“You’re joshin’ yourself, boy. His fever comes and goes. The two of you need food and rest, help. Folks’ll be more likely to give it to you than to him. But it’s up to you, son. Richmond’s as far as I go. I’ve a family to get back to.”

“Yes, sir. Thanks for helping us. I’m beholden. We both are—my brother and me.”

“You’re a stubborn cuss. If you’re a mind to go south, stay as far from Petersburg as you can. They’ve dug in—under siege-long already. Rebs and town people can’t get out; Yanks can’t get in… I still say leave him in Richmond and go on home before snow comes. We’re deep in October already; it won’t be long. Your ma’ll be glad to have one son—better than none.”

Wooster didn’t answer.

“Suit yourself.” The driver clucked the reins. We rattled on, and the rattling set me adrift again.

In and out, in and out. I couldn’t tell dreaming from daylight, couldn’t tell if the long stretches were passing days or passing weeks. I only knew that each time I woke the wind cut rawer, colder than the last.