Woe to Live On: A Novel (22 page)

“Oh, all right. Certainly there are Mexicans down there, Dutchy. But damned few white men.”

“That sound like another fight,” Holt said.

“Probably,” Cave responded. “Probably there would be a fight. But it’d be a fight for a new start. That’s a different thing.”

“Will you go to Mex?” I asked Sayles.

“I don’t plan on it,” he said. “I only want to see my wife and kids in Texas.”

Turner Rawls cackled and snorted rudely.

“Oh, hell wid dis. Ah jine Bock Yawn.” He stared at me, the rude look still on his face. “Oo mah fwen, Yake. Ah hep oo bud now Ah jine Bock Yawn.”

I looked at his badly angled jaw, and pondered his haphazard speech. We had been together in several hot spots, but the string was played out.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Dis mah war heah.”

I think his comment soured Cave and Sayles. I reckon it made us all feel a bit like skulkers. I know this: the conversation dwindled and we all leaned back in the shadows of the room, lost in individual thoughts of the future, and I don’t guess the whole gang of us showed up in any of them.

On the morning after, the boys took off by different routes, Cave and Sayles heading south to new things and Turner trotting north for more of the old.

It made me and Holt sad, but Sue Lee and Grace settled next to us, and their mere presence lifted the gloom.

“I have a thing or two to say to you, Jake,” Sue Lee said.

There was a cock crowing nearby, and a bright day of light was coming around. Wilma was rustling up some oatmeal and Orton was out tending the horses. I had a very contented feeling everywhere but in my calf.

“Well, speak up,” I said.

“I think I want a walk,” Holt said. He raised himself and walked weakly to the door. Banged-up ribs are slow to mend. “This ain’t my business.”

“Jake,” Sue Lee said when we were alone. “What’s this trash I hear about you being my fiancé?”

She had that mess of hair of hers hanging wild over her face, but it had a rough charm to it. Her skin was clear and pink and healthy. I guess I did like her pretty well despite some things.

“Oh. So you have heard that. Well, it was sprung on me by Sayles.” I tried a bashful smile on her. “See, they all
thought you was carrying my kid ’cause I brung you into camp after, you know, Jack Bull.”

“Ah,” she said, and reared her head way back so she could study me and her nose in one glance. “Do you figure I ought to be married?”

“Yes, if you want to keep fingers from wagging in your face.”

“Oh, that doesn’t bother me.”

“Well, it’s also another thing, Sue Lee. They got a name for kids without daddies, you know. It’s not a good one.”

“I know that. So, do
you
want to marry me, Jake?”

“Naw. Not too bad.”

“Good. That’s good news. I wouldn’t marry you for a wagonload of gold.”

“I’ll bet you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“I’ll just bet you wouldn’t.”

Grace was on the floor between us, flinging her hands and feet around like a back-rolled turtle.

“I wouldn’t marry you even if you weren’t a runty Dutchman with a nubbin for a finger.”

“Fine,” I said hotly. “That’s damned fine. I wouldn’t want a wife who didn’t have whole teeth. Anyhow, being your man is bad luck. I don’t need to marry any of that.”

That comment wobbled her fine face. Her hands went clawing through her hair.

“Well, it’s true,” she said. “I guess it’s true. That’s why I won’t hook up with any more fighters. I just won’t do it.”

I knew I was somewhat mean as well as a liar. That is the way of the cautious heart.

“You’re not bad luck,” I said. “You have had bad luck, that’s all.”

When I speak nice I suppose it don’t sound quite authentic. She faced down, her eyes on the flopping baby, and shook her head.

“I’d need convincing that you mean that,” she said. “Then I’d need convincing that you were right.”

I went on the mend in the following weeks. The wound no longer hurt too much, but the leg wobbled when I put weight on it.

The days at Orton Brown’s had a routine to them. Orton, who I had grown fond of, rose each morning in time to mock the cockcrow. He slopped his hogs and tended the horses, and by the time that was done Wilma had a breakfast ready.

After eating, I would languish at the sunniest window and Holt would go for a long walk, no matter the weather. Generally I would be stuck with Grace while Sue Lee pitched in with Wilma at whatever chores the day required. I tried corraling the babe on my sunny bit of floor, but she did baby things. The floor was dirty and splintery and new to her, so she licked at it. She tried crawling away at my every unaware moment and drove me cranky and practical right quick. I took a lash of rope and tied one end to my ankle and noosed the other on her leg and gained a moment of peace for myself. The kid, anchored or no, pitched out bawling sounds worse than a gut-shot Yank on a real hot day. I never did anything to provoke these bellows, but once Sue Lee walked by in the midst of one and said, “Sweet thing wants some suck, but Momma is busy.”

I understand what that meant well enough, but I knew that I could not duplicate the feat. A man just ain’t a mother and that’s all there is to it. But the next time she went into an infant rant, I had that in mind. I tried manly angles of diversion on the child. I crooned raspy lullabies and made carnival faces and attempted various unlearned tricks. None of it worked. The tiny face stayed soured up and the bawling became desperate.

I picked Grace up after all her squally prompting. To caress or strangle her was the question in my mind. I swung her about, swaying on my gimpy leg, hoping movement and embrace might calm her. It didn’t, so I ran my free hand over her cheeks to pinch them and my nubbin passed those infant lips and she clamped right onto it. She went silent on the instant and gummed away at that nubbin. My stump was exactly acceptable to a cantankerous babe after suck.

I staggered on one wound and soothed with another.

It was the sudden silence I reckon that brung Sue Lee into the room, her eyes all suspicious. She watched my soothing exercise for a moment, not too thrilled with it, and said, “I suppose I’ll feed her.”

“Hell, no, you won’t,” I said. “I’ve just now got this thing under control.”

“She needs to be suckled, Jake.”

I gimped back toward the front room with old spoilsport giving chase. I turned away from her, and as she turned after me my leg gave out and I about fell. I wouldn’t want to hurt the babe for anything, so I had to give her up to Momma.

“Here now,” Sue Lee said. She sat in a chair by the window
and cradled Grace to her chest. I was standing right there, but she unbuttoned her blouse and let a big pink-nippled breast flop out. Seeing one gave me a good notion of how the pair would look. She just stared right at me, a saucy, sassy gleam to her eyes, as Grace slurped after suck.

I collapsed to the floor. This business had always been kept private before. The scene this process made sort of jolted me. I had to watch it. That woman had a holy expression on her face that most any god would covet.

I slid across the floor to get closer. I sat at her feet and intently studied the effect of a nipple on a suckling child. Sue Lee studied me about as intently, but she didn’t turn away and she didn’t say scat.

My nature really rose seeing her that way. Probably it shouldn’t have, but, mister, it did.

At night Holt and me stretched out on the floor. I could tell by the way he breathed that he was awake. It had gotten to where sleep didn’t lead to rest. I suppose that after some weeks of safety, grief and shudders had caught up to us.

When I reckoned myself to be in slumber, a number of rude deeds were embellished in dreams. I had a glimpse of the black tongues on the hanged. Whole sequences of pistols and bloodied heads played out. Jack Bull Chiles tried to peel an apple with only one arm and a dripping stump. This one thing hit me over and over: a smart sprout of a Dutch boy being back-shot. And on one night of fevered fictions, Pitt Mackeson slinked up to finish the job on me.

This startled me awake. I sat up.

“Can’t sleep?” Holt asked.

“Naw. These quilts are too heavy. They make me sweat.”

“Mine, too.”

There were also the live nightmares to occupy my thoughts. Orton had gotten in the habit of relaying rumors about the boys and Black John. He said they were being hurt by the Federals but still did some fighting, a lot of robbing and too much scalping. He had claimed that Black John was dead, but I didn’t think it was so. I could well believe that the Cause had been set loose in the lust for loot. Anyone could have seen it coming.

I wondered if all the war I had slopped through had gone for naught, so I said to Holt, “Holt, was all that fighting for naught?”

I lit a candle while I waited on his answer.

“How would I know?” he said. The little flame flickered and did shadowy things on our faces. “What it is I do know is all them dead niggers in Lawrence. I can’t toss them dead niggers out of my mind.”

“It was a lot of dead types in Lawrence,” I said.

“They didn’t spare a single nigger.”

“They didn’t
want
to spare anybody, Holt.”

“Jake, what I think of the boys is this: niggers and Dutchies is their special targets. Why was we with them?”

“Why, to stop the Yankee aggressors.”

“But we didn’t stop them.”

“No.”

“And the boys shot you and the boys shot me.”

“That was personal,” I said. “Personal ain’t war.”

Holt chewed on that for a moment. He had a proud look on his face, and I knew he was lost for what to do next.

“George is dead, Jack Bull is dead, Riley is dead and Pitt Mackeson is alive. Now, where does that leave you and me, Jake? Where does that leave me?”

This was one of those times I was supposed to have an answer. But there was no revelations on my side of the candle neither, so I said, “Right here, Holt.”

He did a stretched-lip look of disgust. I guess I was a disappointment.

“I knew we were here,” he said. “And this ain’t nowhere for me.”

Later on Holt snored and I didn’t. I took a candle and slid over the floor to my satchel. I had an errand to do and I needed my writing implements to bring it off.

For an address I put down “The Bull Family of Frankfort, Kentucky.”

Dear Mother and Missus Chiles, I wrote. I hope this letter finds you. I am only guessing as to where you are. Missus Chiles, will you please read this to Mother?

There is sad news. Jack Bull is dead, slain by the invaders, as was his father before him. The thing to say is he died for his nation I guess. Actually a doctor might have staved off infection, but there was none and this laid him low. He made as dignified a passing as was possible and there is no reason to be anything but proud of him. I loved him as a brother and you know it.

Mother, Father’s death torments me so. I know I gave him
little but argument. His fascination with General Sigel and all things Federal never took hold in me. I gave him grief for that. I still believe he is wrong; we don’t have to tolerate invaders just because they have uniforms and high-sounding titles. That is an Old World trait and I won’t have it. But I never wanted Father hurt over me. We all walked in the dark. I feel I killed him in too many ways. I won’t babble off the whole long list of my regrets.

I hope to someday see you both again. It would be best in a peaceful spot, but it would be good anywhere. I don’t think it will happen soon.

There is one more thing, and I say it only in confidence, and solely to give hope. Jack Bull fathered a girl child last winter and she is a close image of him. I will try to care for the babe as much as fortune allows, for Jack Bull would wish it of me.

I have too much more to say to say anything.

I am wounded somewhat and where I am headed is unknown. It probably won’t be where you are. With all my regards, Jacob.

W
HEN THE SUN
slipped up I was waiting on it. Orton came from his bedroom, rubbing the yellow crud from the corners of his eyes. He carried his boots and sat next to me to put them on.

“How you feeling, Dutchy?”

“Not so bad.”

“You look like you feel good. Do you feel good?”

“I don’t feel too bad.”

“Ah,” he went, then pulled on his boots. “You seem about healed up to me.”

“It still hurts some, my leg does.”

“But it’s about healed, ain’t it?”

“I suppose so,” I said. “Why are you so curious, Ort?”

He cocked his head and shrugged.

“Just enjoy it to see a man get well, Dutchy. That’s all.”

I watched him go to the kitchen, and he came back quick, gnawing on a piece of corn bread.

“I got to go to Hartwell today,” he said. “I should be back by night.”