A Perilous Proposal (7 page)

The soldier lashed his mount and bolted after him.
Terrified, Jake kept running. But he was no match for a man on horseback, much less six of them. Within seconds they had him surrounded.

“Where you think you're going, nigger boy?” said another of the soldiers. He inched his horse close to Jake and gave him a shove with his boot.

Jake stumbled back and fell against the flank of another of the horses.

“From the look of it,” said another, “he's a runaway. Where you goin', boy?”

“Nowhere, suh,” replied Jake.

“Then what you doing out here alone? You're lyin', boy!”

“Maybe he's a spy for the Union,” suggested one of the soldiers.

“Nah, he's too young and ugly for that. He's a runaway if you ask me.”

“Then we gotta do something about that, don't we, boys?”

“Yeah,” laughed another. “Looks like we got to teach this nigger boy a lesson!”

“I ain't no runaway or no spy—” Jake began. Another kick in the ribs silenced him.

“Hey, boy! You ain't got no call to talk unless your betters ask you a question. So you just shut your mouth!”

At last Jake's anger got the better of his fear.

“President Lincoln's gonna free us all one er dese days, an' den I'll say whateber I feels like sayin'!”

It was a foolish outburst. Jake still hadn't learned to control his anger.

“You hear that, boys! He says ol' Abe's gonna free him.” Cruel laughter followed, along with a few more shoves and jabs and kicks against his head and shoulders.

“Ain't you never heard of the Confederate States of America, nigger boy?” said one of the riders. “That's where you are now. Abe Lincoln don't got no power here. Ain't that
right, boys? You ain't in Abe Lincoln's country no more—you're in the South, where Jeff Davis is president. Niggers ain't free here and you're still a slave. That's why we got to teach you your place. You been speaking with disrespect to your betters. We got to learn you some manners.”

One of the men took a rope from behind his saddle. He made a loop and tossed it over Jake's head and coiled it around his shoulders and chest, then yanked tight. Jake struggled, but his efforts only tightened the cords all the worse. Two or three of the riders jumped off their horses and grabbed his hands. Soon they were tied behind his back. The men took the other end of the rope and tied it somewhere, though Jake couldn't see, then they scrambled back up onto their horses. Hardly knowing what they were doing, suddenly Jake heard a few shouts.

The horses galloped away. For a second or two he stood bewildered, then suddenly felt himself pulled viciously off his feet and along the ground. Up and down the rider dragged him behind his horse over the hard dirt. With his hands tied, Jake was powerless to protect his head. He twisted and bumped and tumbled behind the horse like a sack of potatoes. The rope cinched so tight around his chest that he could hardly breathe.

Laughter, shouts, and taunts mingled with the pounding of galloping hooves. He felt almost as if the horses themselves were trampling on his head.

Back and forth the soldier dragged him. His clothes ripped and tore. His bare skin was soon scraped and bleeding and caked with dirt. His head was pummeled to near unconsciousness.

The thought came into Jake's battered mind that he was about to die. Fleeting memories of his mother, and even dimly behind them of his father, flitted through his brain.

Just as Jake's awareness began to fade completely, an explosion of gunfire sounded. Another followed. Jake's dull
thought was that other riders were shooting as he tumbled over the ground. Their next shots would surely be through his head. His brain spun confused and out of control.

Shouts . . . more gunshots, louder this time. Why hadn't his head been blown apart? Still he felt no bullet smashing into his chest or skull. How could they miss? Why was he still alive?

The horse had stopped. He lay flat on his stomach. Everything became still and quiet.

Though barely conscious, he struggled to listen. Horses were galloping away in the distance. Faintly he heard footsteps approaching. Then they stopped. Someone was standing next to him. He was dead now for sure. Standing straight above him, no one could possibly miss.

Warm, dreamy exhaustion filled him. His head swam in swirling light.

Then slowly everything went black.

M
ICAH
D
UFF

9

W
HEN JAKE PATTERSON SLOWLY BEGAN TO COME TO
himself, his first sensation was of a faint crackling sound. His brain was blurry and confused. Blackness surrounded him. He was cold.

Suddenly he knew what it was—it was the sound of a fire, the crackling of flames.

Was he dead? Had he woken up in hell!

The next thoughts that came were reminders of his dreadful secret, and what he had done and the terrible things he had said to his mother. No wonder he was here. He belonged to the devil now. It was nothing more than he deserved.

Slowly another sensation gradually filtered through into his senses . . . more crackling and sizzling. But with it came . . . what was it?

Jake sniffed at the chilly air.

It was the smell of bacon frying.

He struggled to turn toward it. Suddenly within him a thousand places screamed in pain. Every muscle, every bone, every inch of his body was scraped, cut, bruised . . . or worse.

A groan sounded. It seemed far away, yet Jake realized it had come from his own mouth.

He managed to open his eyes a crack. He could hardly
move, but he could see. A few yards from him burned a small fire. A black pan sat on top of its coals from which apparently came the sound and smell of frying bacon. Now he noticed, along with it, the smell of coffee coming from a pot next to the pan.

Wherever he was, he thought, it couldn't be hell. The fire was too small. And the old devil surely didn't treat his guests with such luxuries!

Now he saw a few trees. The grey light of daybreak began to awaken his consciousness further . . . now more sounds . . . shuffling feet . . . indistinct voices . . . the occasional snort of horses from nearby.

He detected movement. He opened his eyes wider. There were men around, stirring in the morning mist . . . milling about . . . getting dressed . . . tending to their horses. They all wore the same color . . . the color of uniforms . . . he was surrounded by soldiers!

Another groan escaped Jake's lips, this one of fear. He was alert now. He knew he was in danger! He had to get up . . . get away . . . get to the woods before they noticed he was awake! He had to get out of here!

But his groans had attracted someone's attention. Jake struggled to turn his head. Beside the fire someone in a uniform stooped to one knee and stirred at the pan. He was dressed head to foot in dark blue.

The soldier turned toward him. The light of the fire flickered and reflected from the man's face. Jake's eyes shot open at the sight of it.

“So . . . you've come to at last,” said the man, revealing a smile of friendly greeting. He stood and walked toward where Jake lay. “I was beginning to think I'd lost you for good.”

All Jake could do was stare up in astonishment. The face looking down at him was
black
!

“Who . . . who are you?” Jake tried to say. He could
scarcely speak. The words came out like the croak of a dying frog.

The man chuckled.

“You just lie still, son,” he said. “Don't try to talk. Don't try to do nothing.”

“But I gotta git outer here,” Jake said in a groaning whisper.

Again the man laughed. “You're not going anywhere anytime soon, brother,” he said. “You got yourself mighty banged up. You got welts and bruises all over you, two or three broken ribs and maybe a broken arm besides. I don't know if you could walk right now if you tried. So you lay still. You'll be fine right here.”

“But where am I . . . who are you . . . what happened to those—”

Jake's voice cracked. His mouth was too dry and his lips too cut and swollen to continue. The man saw him trying to lick at his lips, turned away for a minute, then returned and bent to one knee beside him. He slid a hand under Jake's shoulders and lifted him slightly, then with his other hand put a cup of cold water to Jake's mouth. With great effort Jake managed to sip at it, though it was painful to swallow, until he had downed about a third of it. The man eased him back down.

“The name's Micah Duff, son,” said the soldier. “Private Duff. You're with a company of Illinois volunteers heading for Chattanooga.”

“But . . . dose others . . . dose soldiers that . . .” Jake began.

“That was a small detail of rebs. They'd have killed you sure if I hadn't come along. But they're gone now. You don't have to worry about them no more. I was out ahead of our company. That's what I do—I'm a scout. And I tend the horses. I was scouting when I ran into them. Lucky for you I did too. In case you hadn't noticed, they were wearing the
grey of the Confederate rebels. We're wearing the blue of the U.S. infantry. So are you.”

For the first time Jake looked at himself. His legs were covered by a blanket, and he saw that he too was wearing a blue army coat.

“It was all I had to wrap you in to keep you warm,” said the man named Duff. In Jake's eyes, wearing the uniform of a soldier and having saved him from what would probably have been death, the fellow called Micah Duff looked fully a man. In Jake's estimation, Duff might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. In fact, he was but eighteen. He was only a few years older than Jake and hardly more than a boy himself.

Jake lay back and closed his eyes and tried to take in this latest change in his life. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. But he knew he was weak. And as he came more fully awake he realized the truth of what the young man had said—that he was seriously hurt and wasn't going anywhere on his own anytime soon. He hurt everywhere!

He did his best to keep sipping at the water in the cup. Gradually he finished it and asked for a refill. After a little while, with Duff's help, he managed to sit up. Now his ribs and left arm really screamed out at him!

Duff handed him a cup of coffee. “Here,” he said, “this ought to help clear some of the fog out of your brain. It might not be too good, but it's strong, which is all the men of this company expect. I'm not the cook, but a lot of them still come to my fire for their first cup of coffee in the morning. They say the cook's coffee's too weak.”

Jake took it with a grateful nod, and began sipping at the edges of the steaming cup. It was strong, all right!

“Now let's see about that bacon!” said Duff. “You hungry?”

“I ain't had no chance ter be hungry, suh,” replied Jake.
“I'm barely waked up enuff . . . I's still tryin' ter figger out all what's goin' on.”

Duff laughed. “Well, you'll be hungry soon enough, I reckon. By the way . . . what's your name, brother?”

“Jake Patterson, suh.”

“Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Jake,” said Duff, forking out several slabs of the sizzling pork onto two tin plates. He handed one to Jake. “But one thing we gotta get straight,” he went on, “—I ain't no
sir
. I'm just a black man like you.”

“I ain't no man, Mr. Duff,” said Jake. “I's just a kid on da run tryin' ter keep out er sight an' make it to da norf.”

“How old are you, Jake?”

“I don't know . . . twelve, I reckon, maybe thirteen by now. I kinder lose track er time hidin' out like I been doin'.”

“Hey, Duff, looks like your invalid's gonna make it after all,” a voice interrupted them. Jake turned to see a white man looking him over as he approached.

“Yes, sir,” said Duff. “I'm trying to get some coffee into him.”

“If anything will bring the life back into him, it's your coffee! How you doing, son?” he said, glancing down at Jake.

“Uh . . . okay, suh.”

“Gimme a cup of that coffee of yours, Duff,” he said, handing the private an empty cup.

Duff filled it. The man took a sip, grimaced, then walked away.

“Well, Jake,” said Duff when he was gone, “I'm eighteen, so that makes me a little older than you, but not old enough for you to call me no
sir
. So you see, I'm just a few years ahead of you, though being a soldier makes a man of you quicker than other things.”

“Why are you a soldier, Mr. Duff? Ain't you a slave?”

“A slave! I've never been a slave, Jake. I'm from Illinois and I'm as free as any white man alive. Why . . . were you a slave?”

“I's still a slave, Mr. Duff,” said Jake.

“Talking to you, I'm not sure I like the
mister
any more than I do the
sir
. Nobody's called me a mister in my life. All the men around here just call me Duff, or Private Duff. So why don't you do that too, Jake, if you don't want to call me by my name.”