The Black Flower Page 23

  Clutching his ramrod, Nebo rose from the floor of the gallery and hobbled over to the balustrade. For a moment, he watched the activity in the yard below, trying to comprehend what it all meant, but it made no more sense than anything else he’d seen in the great war. Then he spied Anna.

  She looked so small among all the men, and her yellow dress was bright among all the drab grays and browns. She seemed to be moving with a purpose, in the direction of the oak grove that lay beyond the little burying ground. Nebo watched her a moment, tapping the ramrod against the balustrade. Something was pecking at his mind, and it made a sound like the ramrod tapping, and it had to do with the oak grove, the burying ground, the line of trees yonder—all of it seemed to fit together, but in a way Nebo couldn’t grasp. It seemed like something bad had happened once, when all these images were together before, and if he wasn’t careful something bad would happen here again. Nebo thought about Bushrod shaking and shaking him, saying at him Do you remember? Do you remember? and it seemed like he did remember something then—

  Trying to think about it was like walking through an empty house. He had done that once, walked through the echoing rooms of a big house that the people had left behind. Things scurried there, just out of sight, and watched him as he wandered lost in the maze of rooms. It scared him badly, and now he was scared in just the same way. He twisted his hands around the ramrod. “Miss Anna?” he whispered. “Miss Anna?” Then, still saying her name, he turned and went through the open window behind him.

  In the oak grove, a little distance from where Bushrod knelt to pray, Simon Rope was awakened by the flies swarming on his severed ear. The whole side of his face was covered in them, feeding and laying their eggs in the raw flesh. He brushed them away, and with his little finger dug out those that were trapped down in the ear itself. Then he rose, hawked and spat in the leaves, and looked about him. It promised a fair day for traveling if he wanted to travel—but he didn’t really want to. Not yet.

  He discovered that he had not slept alone; the corpse of a Federal soldier, killed in yesterday’s skirmish, lay an arm’s length away. Simon Rope ambled over, went through the man’s pockets, found a cheap watch and four dollars. He added this booty to his haversack then, yawning, relieved himself on the corpse.

  He was buttoning his breeches when he stopped, listened, turning his good ear to the sound. It was a horse, he thought, moving somewhere in the trees. A horse most likely meant an officer, and Simon Rope didn’t want to be caught robbing even the Federal dead. It sounded close, but he could see nothing. Then he remembered how birds scratching in the underbrush could fool a man—they could sound just like a deer or a horse or a man moving. Birds, he decided. It was just birds. He spat again, slung the haversack, and moved cautiously toward the house. In a moment he could see the yard, and his eye was immediately caught by a splash of yellow moving toward him.

  “Well, I’ll jes be goddamned,” he said, and grinned.

  Sometime during the night, when it seemed that the yard and house would be overwhelmed with wounded men, one of the McGavock slaves was ordered to remove certain corpses to the privacy of the grove. It was not a job the man relished, so he worked quickly, dragging the appointed corpses out of the circle of firelight, up through the brush to a little glade he knew about. He worked too quickly, in fact; in his haste, he brought along some who were not dead and laid them out with those who were. In the dark and confusion it was not always easy to tell the difference. Now it was morning, and only one of these unfortunates was still alive. He could not move, for he had only one leg remaining, and that was broken. He was propped against the swollen body of a genuine corpse, was glued to the ground by his own congealed blood—yet somehow he lived, and as he passed in and out of awareness, the morning appeared before his eyes in installments, like a serialized novel. He took no interest in what he saw; in fact, it greatly irritated him to be conscious. He preferred to sleep, wanted only to sleep—he did not feel that was asking too much.

  Then, during one of his awakenings, he discerned a vague figure in the clearing. He blinked, and at length recognized the visitor as a man he had known once, had been connected to somehow. But it was so much trouble to be connected to anything now, and he wished only for the man to go away and leave him alone. Go away Bushrod, he said, though he made no sound.

  Bushrod stood on the edge of a grassy clearing six or seven rods in breadth and about that distance from the place where he’d knelt to pray. He had come upon it so suddenly that he startled a flock of crows; the birds rose on flapping, silken wings and settled in the branches overhead, where they croaked and muttered in complaint. Bushrod saw right away what the crows were after.

  The little clearing was full of Departed, lying like jackstraws, a blur of sodden uniforms and bare feet and beards and hands, their faces meaningless shapes under the flies. From their positions (nearly all were on their backs, their shoulders hunched as if they were shrugging) they must have been dragged here and left for the crows. That was bad enough, but apparently they had not all been dead; a few had tried to crawl away, back toward the fires and voices in the yard. One of these lay face-down at Bushrod’s feet; he had nearly trod on its outstretched hand when he stepped out of the trees.

  It hurt him to see these pathetic, lonely creatures, and it scared him a little, too. Every field had its secret charnel places, and to come on one of these suddenly and alone was always a horror—the Departed always seemed to be watching and resentful, as if a living man had no business there. Bushrod shuddered and began to back away when his eye caught a flicker of movement. He froze, watching.

  Something had moved. Bushrod knew very well that the Departed were sometimes restless—they moaned, belched, farted, sat upright, did all manner of awful things. So it might only have been that. Or it might have been a crow, made bold by the feast, or even a hog rooting around in the pile. Yet, as much as he wanted to believe it was one of these things, Bushrod knew by instinct that it probably wasn’t. Somebody in the clearing was still alive. He swore to himself—he didn’t have time to be fooling around, yet he couldn’t just leave a man—

  There! He watched the hand raise a little way, then drop limply to the ground again. That fellow was alive, though from the look of him, he wouldn’t be for long. Bushrod felt sick. He didn’t want to go into the clearing with all these Departed, wasn’t a thing he could do, he had business of his own—

  But what if it was you? he thought, and answered himself: All right, dammit.

  He moved out into the grass, gritting his teeth, wishing he was someplace else. For an instant, Anna passed through his mind: what if she were to come upon something like this? He shook the thought away, gave a wide berth to the man who had died crawling, and approached the one who still lived.

  The crows set up a terrific cawing overhead, somewhere a tree limb groaned in mournful iterance, there was a drone of flies and a first sweet hint of decay. Bushrod moved with infinite care, as if he were stalking game. He could see the man watching him now with heavy, indifferent eyes.

  “Hey, podner,” said Bushrod.

  The mouth in the blackened face moved as if to speak, but no sound came. The hand raised again as if to wave him away.

  “I will get you out of here,” said Bushrod. “We’ll go back to—”

  He stopped. In the pale sunlight everything seemed to draw together all at once, draw down to a little bright circle around the man’s face, and all at once there was no clearing, no grove, no broad fields, no universe, only Bushrod Carter walking on stiff legs through the grass saying No, no then Aw, no Aw, no then Aw, shit Aw, shit—

  Bushrod stumbled across the little way remaining and dropped to his knees beside the dying man. “Aw, shit,” he said. He touched the man’s face. “Aw, shit, Jack.”

  Jack Bishop blinked his eyes at Bushrod. “Lemme alone,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Why ain’t you dead?”

  Bushrod turned his head, vomited bile onto the grass. When he turned
again, Bishop pawed weakly at his jacket. Bushrod took his hand, pressed it to his cheek.

  “Seen the fellow hit you,” said Bishop. “But I got the son bitch, stuck his ass, don’t worry—”

  “It don’t matter, Jack,” sobbed Bushrod. “It don’t matter.”

  “Damn flies,” said Bishop.

  Bushrod waved at the flies.

  Bishop coughed, spat blood. “Couldn’t stop for you, man, wasn’t no stoppin—” He raised his head. “Say, where’s that good water, I want some, where’s that boy?”

  “I ain’t got any water,” said Bushrod, “but I will get you some.”

  “Don’t go to no trouble.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Bushrod, “I’ll get you some, Jack.” He stood up, too fast again, and moved in a dizzy circle, trying to think of what to do. His chest was hurting now, and his arm burned as if a nail had been driven into the elbow—he cursed and struck his arm with his fist and struck at his bandaged hand and the crows rose all at once from the branches and flapped away toward the river, crying in alarm. Then Bushrod was among the dead.

  Always the dead—not the Departed now, but the dead. Like in the murky hall of the great brick house. They were free of everything, released from everything, but still they couldn’t let it go. They turned on all they had ever known and mocked it, scorned and belittled it as if they’d been mistaken all along until now. They walked the earth, walked in dreams and in the light of midnight fires, mocking—

  Bushrod kicked at them, pulled them over, cursed them. He caught one by its shirt and shook it; the staring eyes regarded him with astonishment. “You think that’s funny?” spat Bushrod. “You got somethin to say?” The dead man exhaled a foul breath, and Bushrod flung him away.

  Then he saw a blond-haired boy who still had his drum canteen. Bushrod kicked him over, grabbed him by the hair and shook him. “Hey!” he said. He slapped the smooth, rubbery face. “Hey! Get up!” But the boy didn’t get up. Bushrod reached in his pocket for his clasp knife, found his good pipe there, broken. He cursed, found the knife, opened it with his teeth. “You give me that,” he said, and cut the linen strap of the boy’s canteen.

  He stumbled out of the tangle of dead, trying to find Jack, turning in a circle while the dead mocked him. They wanted Jack, too. Wanted Bushrod, too. No goin home now, boys—

  “Jack!” cried Bushrod, and stumbled and fell in the grass. He lay there panting, his bruised cheek pressed to the ground. It hurt, but that was good—let it hurt. Something else was moving in the grove, Bushrod could hear it, a scuffle in the leaves. That was good, too—maybe it was the Strangers rolling over the field of Franklin again, and Death riding with them on his goddamned white horse, hunting for Bushrod Carter that was missed before, and that would be fine, just fine—

  And there was Jack. Bushrod crawled to him. “Here. Here’s some water, goddammit.” He put the tin spout of the canteen to Jack’s mouth and watched as the water poured over his chin. Bishop gagged, lifted his head, coughed up a clot of blood that was almost black. He pushed the canteen away.

  “That was lovely,” Jack said.

  Bushrod sat in the bloody grass, the canteen in his lap. He waved at the flies around Bishop’s face.

  “Hey, Virgil C.,” said Jack.

  Bushrod took the other’s hand again. “Virgil C. ain’t here, Jack. Virgil C. is dead, ’member? All the boys are dead.”

  “Bull shit. Yonder he comes right there.”

  Bushrod felt a quick shiver crawl up his spine. “Hush, man, don’t be sayin that.”

  “Bushrod?” The voice was a little more than a whisper, and Bushrod bent close to hear. “Bushrod, who all them people over there?”

  “Oh, my God,” said Bushrod. He was crying now, he couldn’t help it. He stroked the boy’s hand. “Oh, Jack, it’s all right, it’s all right. …you are fixin to cross over, it’s just the boys you see, waitin for you—”

  Bishop shook his head. “No, no.”

  “Don’t worry, pard—it'll be easy, just a little stroll across the grass, I will sit with you—”

  “No, no. Virgil C.—”

  “That’s right, that’s right. He is waitin for us, just a little a little. …,” and stopped.

  Bushrod was listening now. He could hear it again: a scuffling in the leaves, like somebody dragging his feet. The sound was behind him, moving into the clearing—

  That is the way he would come, he couldn’t see with the front of his head blowed away—he is lookin for us, he is—

  “Who is that, Bushrod?” said Jack.

  Bushrod knew then that somebody really was in the clearing. If it was Virgil C.—but Bushrod couldn’t make himself look around. It was like a nightmare, where just so long as you didn’t turn your head—

  Then another sound came, a whimper, like a thing in pain, and Bushrod felt the fear like a galvanic shock, and he thought Damn you, Virgil C. Johnson and before he knew what he was doing he turned—

  “Great God!” cried Bushrod, and struggled to his feet, his heart pounding.

  High clouds raced across the sun, driven by winds aloft. A shadow passed over the yard of the great brick house as Nebo emerged from the back door and collided with Colonel John McGavock on the gallery.

  “Beg your pardon,” said McGavock, and watched as Nebo passed across the gallery without a word.

  The cadaverous figure of Nebo Gloster stalking across the yard—barefoot, in a bloody frock coat and straw hat, carrying a ramrod like a mute’s baton—stirred even the jaded imaginations of the soldiers. They turned to watch him, and those in his path shrank away as if confronted by an animated corpse. Nebo took no notice of them. He moved swiftly, gliding along in silence with his eyes fixed on the oak grove. In a moment, he had disappeared among the trees.

  The crows were coming back. They wheeled above the trees, cawing impatiently. Some settled in the branches; one, bolder than the rest, lit among the dead men and cocked its eye at Bushrod Carter.

  Bushrod was crouched like a pugilist, but his hands were raised, palm outward, as if in surrender.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why, Bushrod,” said Simon Rope. “Is that the way to greet a old pard?”

  Nebo Gloster, who had lived in the woods all his life, knew how to read sign. He could follow the girl easily through the carpet of leaves—she left a light trail, so delicate and subtle it could be no other’s. The sign led him to a big pin oak where it altered radically. Nebo knelt and studied the ground. Something had happened here: an ambush, a struggle. He looked for blood, but there were only the scuffed leaves, their wet undersides gleaming darkly. Nebo raised his eyes and saw a track so clear he could have followed it on a starless night. Two people now, dragging their feet.

  Then he heard the crows. He couldn’t see them, but he could hear them talking up ahead, telling him how to go. Nebo rose and moved on, silent as a ghost. He didn’t need any sign now.

  Simon Rope had Anna by the collar, twisting it so that her face was red and her voice a choked, harsh whisper.

  “I’m sorry, Bushrod,” she said. “I am so sorry—”

  “Shut up,” said Simon Rope, and twisted tighter. Anna clawed at the collar, gagging, her eyes bulging.

  “Leave her be!” said Bushrod. “You are killin her, for God’s sake!”

  “Aw, man,” said Simon Rope, but he eased his grip and Anna gasped for breath and the high color drained from her face until there was almost no color at all. Then Simon Rope brought his knife up and laid the blade against Anna’s cheek, the point just under the moon-shaped scar. Simon Rope grinned and bit her on the ear. Then he looked at Bushrod.

  “Man, I figgered you’d be glad to see me alive after such a hard-fit battle.”

  “You wasn’t in the battle, goddamn you,” said Bushrod.

  “Fuck you,” said Simon Rope. “What you know ’bout where I was at?” He shoved Anna further into the clearing, she stumbled over the crawling dead man but
Simon Rope jerked her up, shoved her again. Bushrod, still crouching, his hands still raised, took a step toward them.

  “That’s right, Bushrod,” said Simon Rope. “Come on! You just come on, see what happens!”

  Bushrod stopped. Anna was watching him now, her eyes wide. She put out her hand, waving it like a blind person would.

  Bushrod Carter moved to the side now, his hands still up. When he moved, Jack Bishop spoke behind him: “Shoulda buried you. …shoulda left you in the ground—”

  “Is that Jack Bishop there?” said Simon Rope, pointing with the knife.

  Bushrod moved back again, slowly, moving his hands now. “That’s him—let him be, he’s played out.”

  Simon Rope shook the knife. “Ought not to thowed dirt in my face, you son bitch!”

  “Let him be!”

  “Ought not to!” Simon Rope was shouting now, spraying spittle. He jammed the knife point into Anna’s cheek, shoved her hard and brought them within an arm’s length of Bushrod, who was moving again, in the other direction this time, watching.

  “Come on, Bushrod!” said Simon Rope, but Bushrod said nothing, he was watching, his eyes flicking toward the edge of the clearing—:

  “Make you a trade, Bushrod. You wanta hear it?”

  “Sure, Simon,” said Bushrod, but he was watching past Simon Rope, toward where they had all come out of the woods.

  “You sure you wanta hear it?”

  “Told you I did.”

  Bushrod could smell the man. He could smell Anna too, the fear on her, but he kept his eyes off her face, didn’t want to look at her face. He watched the clearing, heard Simon Rope laugh, heard his voice spilling out as if he’d lost control of it—