Peter Abrahams - Last of the Dixie Heroes

Jesse got to his feet, not easily, his hands behind his back.

“Who said anything about standing up?” said Vandam, coming up beside Peterschmidt.

Jesse ignored him. “I’m the ranking officer.”

“Speak,” said Peterschmidt.

“What good conduct are you talking about?” said Jesse.

Peterschmidt and Vandam towered over Jesse. “What’s your name, Lieutenant?” Peterschmidt said.

“Lieutenant Jesse Moses, CSA,” Jesse said. “We met at Chickamauga.”

“This is different from Chickamauga,” Peterschmidt said. “You’ve ruined it by your usual indiscipline.”

“What are you talking about?”

“When we found out about your presence here we thought it was a positive development,” Peterschmidt said. “We’ve been hoping for something like this for a long time. But you go too far.”

“You started it.”

“You did.”

From where he sat, Roy could hear them pretty well, but he had trouble following, getting stuck on when we found out about your presence. He stopped right there. How did they find out? Someone must have told them, a spy or a traitor. Then Roy remembered: forces on the move. Why hadn’t he thought of military forces first thing? And like a fool he’d felt those headlights on his back, when all along Ezekiel had been working for the enemy; a spy then, and not a traitor, although Roy felt betrayed.

“It was you,” Peterschmidt was saying.

“You,” said Jesse.

They glared at each other in the hot sun, patches of sweat spreading in the armpits of their uniforms. Roy thought he could hear the waterfall.

“But now it’s over,” Peterschmidt said. “And to make sure our campaign ends without any more of this, we’ll take one prisoner with us, ensuring your good conduct, prisoner to be released at the conclusion tomorrow night.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jesse said. “You have my word.”

Sonny Junior raised his bloody head. “Fuck you,” he said, looking at no one in particular.

“Sergeant Vandam,” said Peterschmidt. “Choose a likely prisoner.”

Choose me, you son of a bitch. That voice deep inside Roy: it had some plan already.

Vandam walked down the Confederate line, all of them sitting in the sun by the Mountain House, hands tied behind their backs. He looked at Gordo, who tried to meet his gaze but blinked, then Dibrell, who didn’t even try; went by Rhett without looking at him; paused at Lee.

“Here’s a pretty little reb,” Vandam said. He looked more closely, his eyes wandering down the opening at the top of the jacket. The expression on his face changed. He bent down, reached his hand in that opening, explored around. Something in Roy went boiling red; in another part of himself, the temperature was much lower. The cool part recorded the simple fact that Vandam was dead, as of that moment.

“Vandam,” said Peterschmidt. “What the hell are you doing?”

“He’s got-”

“There’ll be no robbery of prisoners.”

“But-”

“I gave you an order.”

“Sir.”

Vandam moved on to Sonny. Roy had one glimpse of Lee’s face-distorted by whatever was going on inside-before Vandam blocked his view.

“This here’s the one caused most of the trouble,” Vandam said, standing over Sonny.

“We don’t want him.”

“No, sir. But can I clean him up a little?”

“If you’re quick about it.”

“I’ll be quick.” Vandam’s voice was low and throaty, like a dog getting aroused about something. He took a knife off his belt, got hold of Sonny’s long hair, jerked it all back, hacked it off with one stroke.

Sonny made a roaring sound, tried to bull his way up. Roy didn’t really see what happened to Sonny after that because he was up too, butting at Vandam like an animal. Then there was blue everywhere and he was back down. Blue turned to red. Roy stared up at Vandam through a red haze.

Vandam was watching him, seemed to watch him for a long time. Roy could see Vandam making the prisoner decision in his eyes, knew he was going to get his way, that he would be the one; a decision Vandam would regret. Vandam gave him a little smile, turned, and said: “We’ll take the kid.”

“The kid?” Peterschmidt said.

Roy wasn’t sure he’d heard right until he noticed everyone looking at Rhett. Rhett’s eyes were on only one person, his father. He was trying not to speak, trying to keep something inside, but he couldn’t.

“Dad,” he said.

Roy strained against the rope, useless.

A mocking voice rose from the Yankees in the shade: “Da-ad.” It was the other boy, Vandam’s son.

Rhett’s head whipped around. The boys’ gazes locked on each other. Vandam’s son got up, came out of the shade, stopped a few feet from Rhett.

“Da-ad.”

“Captain Peterschmidt,” Jesse said, “control this boy.”

“I take no orders from you,” Peterschmidt said.

“Your drummer boy’s our prisoner,” said Vandam.

Gordo spoke up. “Ever heard of kidnapping?”

Vandam gave Gordo a kick on the sole of his boot, very light. “No one mentioned kidnapping,” he said. “We’re taking a prisoner, as we got every right to do.”

Roy knew he was right; he just wanted it to be him, and Rhett last of all. Gordo hung his head. Vandam gave him another kick, even lighter.

Peterschmidt licked his lips. He glanced at Gordo, then Rhett, motioned for Vandam. They moved away together, Peterschmidt saying something that made Vandam scowl at first but smile by the time he finished. They came back.

“We’ll offer you an alternative, Lieutenant,” Peterschmidt said.

“To what?” said Jesse.

“To taking the boy prisoner, taking anyone prisoner,” said Peterschmidt. “Instead we’ll settle this once and for all, agreeing to abide by the result whatever it is and cease all hostilities after.”

“Settle how?” said Jesse.

“In unarmed hand-to-hand combat between champions from each side.”

“I’ll take any three of you,” Sonny Junior said.

“And since there’s no point in anyone getting hurt, now that the campaign is nearly over,” Peterschmidt said, “we’ll elect the drummer boys as champions.”

“Out of the question,” Jesse said.

“Then you force us back to the prisoner alternative,” said Peterschmidt.

“Let the boy fight,” Sonny Junior said. “He’ll beat him good for us.”

“Something like this happened,” Peterschmidt said.

Jesse, about to repeat what he’d said, paused. “Spotsylvania Courthouse,” he said. “But it wasn’t drummer boys.”

“Close enough,” Peterschmidt said.

Jesse was silent. Roy thought he heard the beating of heavy wings. Jesse turned to him. “What about it?”

There were three possible answers: no; it’s up to Rhett; yes. Roy said, “Yes.”

“Yes?” said Jesse.

“You heard right, rabbi,” Sonny said.

“Shut up, Sonny,” Roy said.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Jesse said.

“How?” said Sonny.

Jesse ignored him. “We agree,” he said to Peterschmidt.

“And you’ll abide by the result, as an officer and a gentleman?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Lee said.

Everyone looked puzzled.

“You haven’t asked the boy,” Lee said.

Rhett stood up. “I’ll fight,” he said, eyes on Roy.

A Yankee cut the rope binding Rhett’s wrists. A strange moment for the memory that came then to Roy: the hospital bracelet around one of those wrists, the day Rhett was born.

They stood in a circle on the plateau, blue with their backs to the sun, gray, hands still bound behind their backs, with the sun in their eyes. The two boys, stripped to the waist, faced each other inside the circle. Roy forgot about his thirst and the pain in his head, was barely aware of the faces, sweating and intense, of the watching soldiers, had eyes only for the two boys. He saw things he didn’t like, some of them things he maybe should have seen before: how Vandam’s boy was a head taller than his, perhaps an inch or two more than that; how Vandam’s boy had a thick neck, thick wrists, muscles under his baby fat; how he might even have been a little older, certainly more developed, with hair under his arms and a few sprigs already showing on his chest. Rhett looked scrawny, as though he’d actually lost weight since moving up north, what with his ribs showing, and those knuckle-shaped bones in his shoulders more prominent than before. Vandam’s son’s hands were already curled into fists; Rhett’s hung stiffly at his sides, shaking slightly. All he had going for him was that wild tuft of hair sticking straight up.