A Perilous Proposal Page 6

  Finally Duff turned back toward the fire and poured them each a cup of coffee. By then a few more of the men were wandering in their direction, drawn by the aroma of the pot. Within another thirty minutes the camp was abuzz with activity.

  Two mornings later, Jake awoke as usual. But when he got up he found the fire already burning low, like it had been fed an hour or two earlier. Private Duff was nowhere to be seen.

  Jake got up, added a few more chunks to the fire, looked about, then went to fill the coffeepot with water and put it on the fire.

  When Private Duff finally galloped into camp two hours later, he looked as if he’d been riding all night. After giving Jake the reins to his horse and asking him to feed and water him, he went straight to the captain’s tent.

  “There’s a big movement of rebs heading this way, Captain,” he said. “Ten or fifteen times bigger than us at least—maybe more.”

  “You think they know we’re here, Duff?” asked the captain.

  “I don’t know, sir. I saw no evidence of it. But they’re already on the march this morning. If they spot us, there’s no way we could fight them off.”

  The captain rose and paced about his tent. “What do you suggest, Duff—hole up somewhere?”

  “We’ve got no choice, sir. Not unless you wanted to make a run for it.”

  “No, that would be suicide,” said the captain, shaking his head. “Once on our tail, they’d never let up. You spot anyplace nearby we could keep thirty men and horses out of sight?”

  “There’s a small farm two or three miles ahead, sir. Couple of big barns. Otherwise, it’s just the woods.”

  “Hmm . . . I see. Any idea how many people at this place?”

  “I only saw a man and his wife and a girl. Might be a hired hand or two, but I couldn’t tell.”

  “No slaves?”

  “No, sir. No slave crops—just cattle, horses . . . a few sheep.”

  “All right, then . . . good work, Duff. We’d better get camp broken.”

  Duff left Captain Taylor’s tent. He found Jake tending the horses.

  “Hey, Jake,” he said, “taking over for me, I see!”

  “I didn’t know when you’d be back, so I figgered dese horses oughter hab dere breakfast.”

  “Good for you. From what some of the men tell me, your coffee is as bad as mine! Sounds like I’ll be out of a job before long.”

  Two hours later the company paused within sight of the farm buildings Private Duff had told the captain about.

  “Okay,” said the captain, “we’re going to have to commandeer the place, and they’re not going to take too kindly to it. Barkley, Jones, Shenahan, Carter—you come with me. We’ll have to do it at gunpoint, but I don’t suppose it can be helped. The rest of you wait here.”

  The captain and his four officers rode on toward the house, dismounted in front, and walked up the porch to the door. Five minutes later, from where they watched, they saw Captain Taylor reemerge from the house and ride back to where the rest of his men were waiting.

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll put up in that biggest of the barns there if it’ll hold us. Duff, you go see what you think. We’ll have to corral our horses and keep them separate from theirs, and get all the rest of our stuff out of sight. The man’s an ornery cuss—we had to tie him up. But I don’t think his wife and daughter will cause any trouble.”

  “Anyone else around, sir?” asked one of the men.

  “Nope—just the three of them. The woman said they had two hands, but they both joined up when the war broke out.”

  Several hours later they were settled in makeshift quarters in the barn and two other outbuildings. They split the horses into groups in two of the corrals, though the captain was worried that there were so many of them that if the Confederates came, they would get suspicious. Then he had an idea.

  “Billings,” he said to one of the white soldiers. The man walked over. “You used to be from the South, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can talk like a Southerner?”

  “That I can, Captain, sir,” laughed Billings, speaking in his thickest Mississippi drawl.

  “All right, then, you take Jake here—get some of the other men to help you—and take half the horses out to that fenced pasture we passed coming in. Make sure they’re secure, then you and Jake keep an eye on them. The two of you can watch over our horses and won’t need to stay out of sight if the rebels come. Jake’s got a black twang as thick as yours. Just pretend you’re the fellow’s hired hand and that Jake’s the man’s slave. Can you do that, Jake?” he asked, turning to where Jake stood.

  “Dat I can, Captain,” Jake replied. “I been a slave all my life. I don’ reckon I’ll hab ter do much pretendin’! What effen dey ax ’bout my patched-up shoulder?”

  “Tell them Billings got drunk and beat the tar out of you,” laughed the Captain. “Nobody’ll suspect either of you of being with the Union Army.”

  “What about my uniform, Captain?” asked Billings. “They just might suspect that!”

  “Right . . . I’ll get some work clothes from the fellow in the house. He’s about your size.”

  SCUFFLE

  11

  CAPTAIN TAYLOR’S PRECAUTIONS WERE WELL founded, all right.

  The battalion of Confederate troops marched through the area two days later. It was a good thing the soldiers Jake was with were hiding out, because they were outnumbered twenty to one. Private Duff had been out scouting and watching the movements of the big grey army. Finally he galloped into the farmyard and ran to tell the captain that they were close and coming toward them.

  They had to untie the farmer so that things would look normal. He was still fighting mad to be a prisoner of what he called the “damn Yankees” right in his own home. But he couldn’t give them away because Captain Taylor took the fifteen-year-old girl with him to hide in the loft of the barn. He told the farmer that if he did anything to betray them, he wouldn’t be able to protect the girl from his men. Whether Captain Taylor would really have let anything happen to her, who knows? All that mattered was that the farmer believed it. He was steaming inside and would probably have killed them all if he could have. He was a loyal Southerner and hated everyone from the North.

  Then everybody hid, in the barns and the lofts and the cellars, hoping the man and his wife were worried enough about their daughter not to give their presence away. Luckily only the general commanding the battalion and a few of his officers rode in, and nothing aroused their suspicions to make them think they needed to search the place. They asked the farmer if he’d seen any Union troops around and when he shook his head asked if they could camp their men in his fields for a day. They came and went a few times, but not so much that Private Duff and all the others weren’t able to keep out of sight.

  But out where they had corralled their horses, it was different for Jake and Sergeant Billings. They saw a lot of the Confederates and had to be on their guard not to say anything that might give them away. The first day, when they were looking for a place to make their camp, a troop of Confederates rode up and stopped.

  “That’s a lot of fine-looking horses,” said the man in charge as he reined in and looked over the small enclosed pasture.

  “Yes, sir. We’s right proud of them,” said Billings in his Southern twang.

  “Lot of horses for a place this small.”

  “My boss, he likes horses. You killed any Yankees yet, sir?”

  “Not yet, but that’s what we’re on our way to do. We’ll kill every one that sets foot down here where they don’t belong.”

  The soldier glanced toward Jake where he stood silently watching.

  “What you lookin’ at, boy?” he said.

  “Nuffin’, suh. I’s jes’ standin’ here.”

  “Well, I don’t like your looks. You’re an ugly cuss.—He give you any trouble?” he said, turning again to Sergeant Billings.

  “Just the usual with their kind,”
answered Billings. “You know how dim-witted they are.”

  “And you know what to do if he does?”

  “Yes, sir. He knows the taste of a horse whip, all right.”

  “Good man! Well, if he gives you any backtalk as long as we’re here, you come see me. I’m overseer for a big plantation down in Louisiana. I know how to handle his kind.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man turned his horse around and he and his men rode off. It was silent a minute.

  “You mean what you said ’bout me bein’ dim-witted, suh?” said Jake after a bit.

  “Aw, heck no—I was just saying what that Johnny Reb wanted to hear,” said Billings. “If he’d have thought I was too soft, he might have made us some trouble.”

  But there wasn’t any trouble. After two days, the battalion of Confederate soldiers moved on and Captain Taylor’s company came out of hiding. They planned to wait another day or two before moving on.

  On the day they were leaving, in early afternoon, Jake and Sergeant Billings saw someone walking toward them from the direction of the farmhouse. The house was about half a mile away and was an eight or ten minute walk. When the walker got closer, they saw that it was the farmer’s fifteen-year-old daughter. Though Jake had heard some of the men talking about her, he hadn’t seen her before. Now that he did, he thought she must be about the most beautiful girl he had ever seen of any color, white or black. She was short and had long hair that was kind of halfway between blond and auburn red and came down over her shoulders. As she walked up to them and glanced over at Jake, the look that came over her face was almost one of hatred. She didn’t look so pretty then! No one can look pretty or handsome when hatred is in their eyes.

  Jake realized he’d been staring at her without thinking about it. Quickly he looked away.

  “Hi,” she said, and her voice was as pretty as her face. “Are you Sergeant Billings?”

  “That I am, pretty lady,” said Billings.

  “My mama sent me out to tell you that she’s made up a stew and biscuits if you’d like to come into the house and join your men.”

  “Well, that’s right neighborly of her. You see anything of my captain?”

  “He was inside talking to her. He said it’d be all right, and to tell you that the Confederates have left and that you could come and have something to eat and that you’d bring the horses in afterward.”

  Billings walked slowly toward her. “What about your daddy?” he said. “He there too?”

  “Yes, and he’s madder than a wet hen,” said the girl, laughing lightly as if she thought it funny. “He’s storming and cursing like I’ve never heard him before. He about hit the roof when Mama started fixing up a stew on the cook stove and asked me to stir up a batch of biscuits. He asked her what she was doing and she said that those poor young men in the barn hadn’t had a hot meal in two days and that she was going to fix them something to eat. That’s when he got really mad and then finally your captain had to come in and calm him down and Daddy didn’t like that at all.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He stormed and fussed and your captain said that if he didn’t stop it he’d have to tie him up again and gag his mouth.”

  “That’s Captain Taylor, all right!” Billings laughed. “So how long till that stew and those biscuits are ready?”

  “I don’t know—half an hour, maybe,” answered the girl.

  “Then you and I ain’t in any hurry, are we?” He took the girl’s hand and began leading her away. “You watch the horses, Jake,” he said.

  “Where’s you goin’, Sergeant?” said Jake.

  “Never you mind, Jake. You just keep your eyes on those horses.”

  Jake watched as the sergeant led the girl toward a clump of trees bordering the pasture.

  “The house is over that way, Sergeant,” she said.

  “But like I said, you and I ain’t in no hurry. I figure we’ll take the long way around and get to know each other a little better. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t think so, Sergeant,” said the girl, now pulling her hand away. “I think we should go straight home.”

  “What’s your hurry? There ain’t no harm in us having a little fun.”

  Genuinely frightened now, the girl turned and began running back the way she had come. But Billings’ blood was by now running hot and he wasn’t about to give up so easily.

  “Hey, what’s that for, missy!” he yelled, running after her. “I’m trying to be friendly and you go running away. What kind of Southern hospitality is that?”

  Jake’s blood was rising too. He was filled with anger at what he saw. He hadn’t done what he should have a year ago and it had cost his mother her life. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  The girl cried for help. But Sergeant Billings caught up with her quickly. He took hold of her hand again and half dragged, half carried her toward the woods.

  Suddenly Jake crashed into him like a huge black locomotive.

  “What the—” he cried, trying desperately to right himself as he fell to the ground.

  “Git outta here, girl,” said Jake, struggling to keep his own feet beneath him. “You jes’ git back ter yo mama . . . git goin’!”

  The girl glanced back and forth between the white man and big Negro boy, then turned and dashed for the house. Billings climbed back to his feet.

  “What in tarnation you doing, Jake!” he yelled.

  “I seen dat look in yo eye, suh,” replied Jake, breathing hard from the exertion of the run. “I din’t think you wuz gwine do right by dat girl.”

  “And what business is it of yours?”

  “Likely none, suh. But I had ter proteck da girl.”

  “Protect her!” fumed Billings. “You, a slave kid . . . you protect a white girl from me!”

  Before Jake could defend himself, the sergeant charged him and delivered two quick blows of his fist to Jake’s jaw and nose. But Jake was too big to be knocked down so easily. The blows stunned him awake. Heedless of his bandages and sling, he turned on Sergeant Billings with a pent-up wrath that it might have been wiser to keep under control. Though eight years older, Billings found Jake more than he could handle. A few swift jabs from Jake’s good arm to his own face brought blood from his nose and a nasty cut above his right eye. For a minute or two it looked as if Jake might thrash him good. But from where he had fallen, Billings lifted one foot. As Jake stooped down to hit him again, he kicked at his chest with all his might.

  Jake howled and stumbled back. The sergeant’s boot had hit dead center against Jake’s broken ribs and injured left arm. Jake’s eyes filled in an agony of pain, and his whole left side was suddenly useless. Billings jumped to his feet and ran toward him.

  “You blamed fool nigger!” he cried, pounding at Jake’s face. “You should have minded your own business! Now I gotta teach you what your kind never seems to learn—not to interfere with your betters!”

  No longer trying to fight back but merely to protect himself with his one good arm, Jake was no match for Billings’ two good fists. A moment later he was on his back.

  “Please, suh, Sergeant . . . please stop!” Jake cried. “My ribs is busted . . . I’s sorry, Sergeant!”

  But Billings was in no mood to let up now. He knocked Jake to the ground, then continued the fight with his boots. Two minutes later, sweating, dirty, and breathing heavily, he stood back, realized he’d gone too far, and went to retrieve his hat.

  He began to walk back toward the house, leaving Jake unconscious and bleeding, two more broken ribs to go with the others. His arm, which had just begun to heal, was broken again in the same spot. Suddenly Captain Taylor galloped toward him. Taylor glanced about the scene as he reined in. He saw Jake lying on the ground, and blood all over Billings’ face.

  “What’s this the girl says about Jake trying to rape her?” he asked.

  “It’s over now,” replied Billings. “He’s over there,” he said with a nod of h
is head. “He won’t be bothering anyone for a while. That true what she said about stew and biscuits?”

  “Yeah . . . yeah, it’s true,” said the captain a little hesitantly, still looking about as if trying to figure out what had happened. “All right,” he said, reaching down one hand, “hop up behind me. Looks like you took a few licks yourself. We’ll go have some of that stew, then come back and get the horses and decide what’s to be done with the kid.”

  LEFT BEHIND

  12

  WORD OF JAKE’S ATTACK AGAINST SAMANTHA DAWSON, and that Sergeant Billings had beaten him within an inch of his life, was all over the Dawson farm before Jake had even begun to come to himself in the field where he lay with several of the company’s horses licking at his face.

  Micah Duff heard about it within minutes of returning from the scouting ride that had reported the last position of the Confederate regiment. Immediately he had his suspicions. He said nothing, however. He looked about for Jake. Not finding him, he remounted his horse and rode out to the field where the rest of their horses had been grazing for two days. It wasn’t hard to find Jake on the ground. Four or five horses were sniffing and snorting about him. Duff dismounted and ran toward them.

  It wasn’t hard to see that the reports he’d heard were true. Jake was hurt, and bad. His old injuries, with new ones added to them, would take longer than ever to heal. Duff also knew that he couldn’t move Jake out of the field alone. Even as he galloped back to the farmhouse for help and a wagon, he was resolving in his mind what to do. As he had expected, the captain was already making plans to move on at daybreak the following morning.

  He got Jake loaded into the back of a small work cart and took him back to the farm. There he made him as comfortable as possible on a bed of straw in the barn, then went to find Captain Taylor.