The Black Flower Page 27

  Bushrod took her hand, pressed it flat against his chest, pulled her to him. He touched her face. “I am not sorry either,” he said. “It is about the only thing in the last three years that’s made any sense.”

  Over the top of her head he could see the gray trees, the old citizens of the grove wreathed in tendrils of smoke. He wondered if they really had souls, as the old people said, and if they were listening, and if they would remember. “You said that was part of it,” Bushrod whispered. “What was the other part?”

  He felt her quick laugh. “Oh, my lands,” she said.

  “What? You can tell it.”

  Her fingers traced the square-and-compasses on his jacket. “Well, if you must know, I wanted to see if you really thought. …if you truly thought I was. …”

  “What, Anna?”

  “Fair,” she blurted, and hid her face.

  For Bushrod Carter then, and for Anna, there came a little while when there was no grave, no impatient dead, no ruins. It was a breath’s hesitation in time, between the curtain’s fall and the moment when it must rise again, but long enough for fragile grace to touch them, and for Anna to find what she had really come seeking in the smoky grove—

  Until time nudged them both again and they stepped apart, a little way, and Bushrod said:

  “Now I will tell you a thing before we go.”

  “You can tell it.”

  Bushrod pulled at the front of his jacket and frowned. “We were talkin about shame,” he said. “I know, I know—but I got to say this. Back at the house, before we went upstairs, before. …before Simon and all that, when you was gone, I gave up on everything, on soldierin, I mean, thinkin I would just quit and go home, run away, if you will, you know.”

  Anna waited, searching his face with her green eyes. “And?” she said at last.

  “Well, that is what I did. That is what I would tell you.”

  “And you think there is shame in that?”

  “Yes. I am a fool. I wish I wasn’t.”

  “Bushrod Carter,” said Anna. She touched lightly the bruised cheek where the musket-butt had struck him, a hundred years ago it seemed. “Do you believe what your cousin said about the heart? Do you believe that?”

  Bushrod nodded. “Yes. I always have.”

  “Then you are not a fool,” she said, and smiled for the last time. “Not altogether, anyway.”

  They turned away then, and it seemed a long way from the sweet-gum tree to the grave, though it was really no distance at all.

  Bushrod, Anna, and Nebo stood at the grave’s edge, looking down at the blanket-shrouded forms. It might as well have been lumber under there, for all the shape there was. Then, as they watched, the contours of faces, hands, feet seemed to emerge from the anonymous mass—the shape of men.

  “Oh, my,” said Bushrod. Anna linked her arm in his, gently, for his was the hurt one. With his right hand, Bushrod began to rub his forehead.

  “Don’t do that, boy,” said Anna softly, and pushed the hand away. “See, you have brought blood again.”

  Bushrod looked at his fingers, then wiped them on his pants. “It don’t matter,” he said.

  Anna squeezed his arm lightly and let it go. “Nebo,” she said, “let us you and I go walk in the garden a while.”

  “Ma’am?” said Nebo.

  “Come you hence,” said Anna, and took Nebo’s arm and led him away.

  Bushrod listened to the sound of their going in the leaves. Then, in a moment, and like an old man moving, he eased himself down into the grave.

  There was not much room, but he managed to kneel, putting his knee where Jack’s leg would have been if he still had it. He made the sign of the cross. He could smell Virgil C. too, a little, but that was all right. Old Virgil C., Bushrod thought.

  The Saint Michael medal was attached to Bushrod’s watch chain by a tiny gold link. He could hardly see it with his bruised eyes. He fumbled at it, finally jerked it loose. He held the medal in the palm of his hand, rubbed his thumb over the Archangel and the dragon, felt for the last time the old mysterious strength that flowed from the struggling figures. Then he lay it on the blanket where he could see the shape of Jack Bishop’s hands.

  He drew the gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and opened the case—the delicate hands had stopped. He had no idea what time to set it for, but he wound it and held it to his ear, listening to the fragile wheels move again. He drew the chain through its buttonhole and let it dangle while he watched the second hand make a full revolution. Then he snapped the case shut and lay watch and chain on the blanket over Virgil C.

  “Well, boys,” he said. “We—”

  But his voice failed him, and he wept.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  By the afternoon of the First of December, the scattered bones of the Army of Tennessee began to draw themselves together. It was an almost supernatural rite the Army had performed time and again, like some mythical beast that refused to die, that writhed up out of its own corpse until it found its shape again. If the shape was diminished, if it had to leave parts of itself rotting in the fields, no matter. All that was important was that it rise, gather its legs beneath it, and totter into the smoke again.

  Like his predecessors, General John Bell Hood believed that it was he who must inspire this resurrection. He had ridden up to Franklin that morning through the shambles of his attack, his wooden leg thrust out at a grotesque angle, no longer the gay chevalier who had charmed Sally Preston in the old Richmond days. Blind to the reality of the moment, General Hood saw only the seeds of possibility. He believed he had won a victory: Schofield was gone, the way to Nashville lay open. He had only to pursue, lay siege, draw the Yankees out and defeat them in the open. At his new headquarters in Franklin, the Commanding General smote his fist on the map of Middle Tennessee with eager confidence.

  He dictated a General Order congratulating the Army on its hard-won victory. It was read before regiments bled to the size of platoons. He sent his aides and couriers galloping into the countryside with orders for consolidation, assembly, movement, pursuit. Many of the officers to whom these missives were addressed were dead; those who were not dead shook their heads in astonishment and looked about them as if they had missed something.

  In the end, it was not the Commanding General—nor any other general, good or bad—who raised the Army from its scattered fragments and made it whole again. Rather it was the corporals, the sergeants suddenly in command of companies, the junior lieutenants and the captains, the field-grade officers who had once been sheriffs and county clerks and cotton planters, the color bearers who planted their battle flags in the rocky fields and sang out the numbers of their regiments: Here is the Fifteenth, here the Forty-third Mississippi. … Here the First Missouri, the Eighth Tennessee, the Sixteenth Alabama, the Seventh Texas. … Here is the old First Arkansas, boys. … All these bullying and pleading and appealing, herding the scattered lambs into a flock once more. And most of all it was the lambs themselves, the riflemen, the privates, who dragged themselves reluctantly out of the night’s anonymity and confusion, supressing memory and judgment, hoping for the best, looking for a roll to answer.

  So it was that the Army came together, slowly, inexorably, and made ready to resume the campaign.

  While larger events were creaking toward Tomorrow, Bushrod Carter stood nursing his wounded arm and watched as Nebo flung the last shovelful of dirt into the grave. Bushrod, who knew something about graves, reflected that, after a few winter rains, the ground here would be sunken and perpetually soggy—that it would still be wet all through the spring while the worms and beetles did their work—that by summertime there would be nothing left of Jack Bishop and Virgil C. Johnson but bones and uniform buttons. Then he remembered that Virgil C. had no buttons left on his coat. Trouser buttons, then.

  He was glad that the grave was deep. He had seen too many rooted out by hogs or washed away, so that the occupant’s busy corruption was evident to all. The boys would be spare
d that humiliation at least, and if Bushrod survived the coming campaign. …but he put that thought away once and for all. Whatever happened, the boys would stay here where they could keep each other company.

  His arm was hurting really bad now, and it was getting hard to ignore. For a moment Bushrod thought he might take a look, just a peek to reassure himself. But he didn’t. Instead, he allowed his tired mind to drift back to the subject of buttons. Virgil C. had pulled every last button off his coat on purpose. Why? For a while, the question assumed a peckish authority in Bushrod’s mind. Then another consideration even more troublesome insinuated itself. As Bushrod watched Nebo tamp down the earth, it occurred to him that he did not know how the grave lay on the compass. He turned to Anna, who was sitting on the ground a little distance away.

  “Miss Anna, which way is east?”

  Anna looked around, pondered a moment, and pointed vaguely. “Well, it might be that way,” she said. “But, then again—”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” said Bushrod. “It ain’t important.” It was a curious thing: not once in all his life had Bushrod met a girl who knew one direction from another.

  Nebo was setting the headboard now. “East is over thataway,” he said, inclining his head.

  Wonderful, thought Bushrod. They had planted Jack and Virgil C. with their heads to the north. He was forced to smile then—he could imagine Jack’s reaction on Judgment Day when he rose up facing in the wrong direction. Well, it would have to be all right. There would be plenty of confusion in this country when the final trumpet blew.

  The grave was finished, and suddenly Bushrod wanted to be away from it. He wanted to be out of the grove and in the fields again, or better still, on his way to the river. If only he could get there, he would bathe and rest a while and maybe he could think about it all then, about all that had happened since he and Jack first looked across the plain toward Franklin. He saw himself building a little fire, sitting by it on a log and watching the bright cold water. He saw Anna, her yellow dress among the white trunks of sycamores, moving shyly down the bank and speaking his name in the evening—

  Now, dammit, there you go again, he thought, and drove the picture from his mind. Whatever else might happen, right now he had to pull himself away from this place. One day he would return, but right now—

  One thing more to do, though. He had to say a prayer over the boys, make sure that God, as busy as He was right now, knew that this was a place He should watch over. Better than that, he would ask Anna to speak it. The memory of her voice would be a sweet thing to leave here.

  So he turned toward Anna, turned too fast, stumbled dizzily and caught himself and was about to speak when a white streak of lightning lanced through his arm; he looked down in horror, actually expecting it to be shattered like a bolt-struck tree, and in that instant the same white light burst in his head and staggered him again and a sickness blew up from his stomach like a foul wind. The sky, the trees, the fresh-mounded grave, all swirled around the yellow blur of Anna’s dress, and Bushrod fought to make it still again thinking Great God I have been shot—they are comin again and I am shot—oh, not now, not now after all this—

  But in a moment the world came together again and the white light faded and Bushrod knew he wasn’t shot. It was his arm, and the pain was so bad he could almost smell it.

  Anna! he cried, but the girl only sat there, looking off into the trees.

  Anna! He was sure he spoke it, absolutely positive, but again the girl didn’t hear. What was the matter with her?

  Somethin is happenin, somethin bad, he thought.

  He was holding his arm, squeezing it against his side. As if from a great height he saw Nebo approach, the spade over his shoulder.

  “Well, they is tucked away,” said Nebo.

  I know; I know. Listen—

  “Won’t nothin hardly bother em now.”

  Bushrod wanted to move, but he couldn’t move. He had to get somewhere, needed a place to hide for a while, someplace quiet where he could rest.

  I need to get to the river, he told Nebo, but the man only yawned. Then he looked at Bushrod and a puzzled scowl twisted his face.

  “What’s the matter, old Bushrod?” said the man.

  I tol’ you, said Bushrod. I need I need I want— But he couldn’t remember.

  “Oh, me,” said Nebo, and his face was afraid now. “Miss Anna! Miss Anna!”

  She heard then, and rose quickly, and Bushrod saw that her face was afraid as well, though he couldn’t understand why. The Strangers were not coming, he was not shot—

  Then Anna was there, touching his sleeve. “Bushrod?”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “They ain’t comin.”

  She peered into his face. “Who?” she said. “Who ain’t comin? Bushrod?”

  But now all he wanted was to be left alone. He heard her voice again, and then she was talking to Nebo and the man said something in return, but Bushrod was not interested, all that had nothing to do with him. He looked toward the grave, Jack Bishop was sitting cross-legged on the fresh dirt, idly shuffling a deck of cards. What’s the matter with you, boy? said Bishop.

  Nothin, said Bushrod. My head hurts.

  Jack popped a card in his fingers. Well, hell, I don’t doubt it.

  My arm hurts bad, said Bushrod, but there’s nothin wrong with it—’twas my hand that was shot—

  Well, you never know, said Jack.

  Virgil C. came strolling up then, swinging a dead possum by its tail. Hey, Bushrod, he said. Look what I got.

  Bushrod squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, Jack and Virgil C. were gone and in their place was the broad landscape of his memory. As far as he could see, there was nothing but death: dead men, washed-out graves, headless torsos bouncing under the wheels of galloping batteries, arms and legs and feet in piles, the swollen bodies of horses, flesh in the trees, raging fires, burning cabins, long lines of infantry swallowed up in the smoke—

  He was afraid and began to shiver. He heard his name and turned and there was Anna coming toward him, smiling, with a black flower in her hand. It was like a rose, fresh-picked and beaded with dew. It was beautiful, but he didn’t want it.

  “No!” he said. “No, I don’t want that!”

  It was the handkerchief, she was twisting it in her hands and watching him and when she spoke his name he could hear the fear in it.

  “Bushrod!”

  “No, I got to go. I got to be goin. It is all right.”

  “No, it’s not all right,” she said. “You are not all right. Let us go and have a surgeon—”

  “No!” cried Bushrod. He thrust his injured hand inside his jacket. “No, I tell you! They will cut my arm off!”

  “No, they won’t—what are you talkin about, boy?”

  Look at his arm, said Jack Bishop.

  “Bushrod,” Anna said softly, “let me see your arm.”

  “No!” said Bushrod, backing away. “Shut up, Jack!”

  “Bushrod, Jack is dead, he can’t hear you.” The girl’s voice quivered, but she steadied it. She put out her hand. “Now let me see.”

  “No!”

  “Come on, now,” said Anna. Her hand touched his sleeve, moved down it to the wrist. Her fingers closed gently. “Come on, now. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Don’t do that,” he sobbed. “I am only tryin to do what’s right!”

  “I know,” she said. “Come on, honey. Anna won’t hurt you.”

  She tugged gently at Bushrod’s wrist where it was hidden under the jacket, and at last he let her pull his hand out. She held it a moment, stroked it, then began to unwind the bandage. It was black with grime by now, and stuck fast with congealed blood. As Anna peeled the bandage away, Bushrod grimaced and turned his head. He studied the grave—nothing but dirt there, now, and a set of Masonic working tools he recognized as belonging to the Cumberland lodge. “Say,” he began, “how did—”

  Anna drew a sharp breath. “Oh!” she said. Then, qui
etly, “Oh, Bushrod.”

  At first, he told himself he wouldn’t look. He shut his eyes tight and tried to call back the picture of the river, but it was no use. He saw nothing but the ghostly image of Anna’s face, and that was fading—and so he looked.

  Anna had worked his jacket sleeve and shirt cuff halfway up his forearm. She was still holding his hand, and from under her fingers the livid red streaks crawled upward over his arm like poisonous vines and disappeared under his coat sleeve.

  Bushrod stared, his heart thumping.

  The girl drew a long breath, let it out slow. “Bushrod. …now, boy, I do not want any argument from you. We must take you to a surgeon.”

  Bushrod drew his sleeve down again and shook his head. “No, no. You see, I don’t fancy a surgeon. They are all butchers. There is nothin the matter, I ain’t ever been hurt, not in all my battles. You see, my medal—”

  He stopped, looked up at Anna. All at once she seemed to be on a far shore, and between them lay a broad, dark water that he knew now he would never cross. “Oh, no,” he said. “I give it to Jack.”

  “No matter,” said Anna gently. “Come on, now.”

  Nebo was kneeling beside him, tugging at his trouser leg. “Come on, old Bushrod,” he said.

  “I will bring you some coffee,” said Anna.

  “You will?” said Bushrod. With his free hand he rubbed his forehead. He saw Jack Bishop again, lounging a little way distant. Jack grinned at him, beckoned, then turned and walked into the trees.

  “Where is Jack goin?” asked Bushrod.

  Anna bit her lip, and her voice was trembling again. “He is goin. …he is goin to my cousin’s house. He wants you to follow.”

  “All right,” said Bushrod. “I will go for a little while.”