Property (Vintage Contemporaries) (16 page)

So he had escaped. “Then he will alert the patrol,” I said.

The wounded man laughed. “I don’t think so,” the captain said.

“He got a load of shot in his backside,” the wounded man said.

“I’m thinking your husband laying close by, missy,” the captain said. “He wily and he won’t leave his woman. I’m thinking he come right to us.”

“You should run while you still can,” I said.

For answer the captain examined his pistol, turning it over in his hands. It was my husband’s, and he used it just as my husband did, as an aid to thought. I looked at Sarah, who stood with her back to the sideboard as if she expected to be called upon to serve coffee. There was a shout outside. The man with the sword rushed across the porch and plunged into the azaleas.

“That be him now,” the captain said.

There were more shouts, the sound of scuffling; a man backed into the porch, crouched down, then lurched forward, falling headlong across the bricks. “I got ’im,” a voice cried, and another man laughed. “What is it?” the same voice said. The captain got up and went to the doors as the guard came in holding out before him the naked, filthy, squirming, screaming body of Walter. “Be careful now,” the guard said. “He bite.”

“Turn him loose,” the captain ordered. As soon as his feet hit the ground, the boy tried to dive back outside, but he was redirected by a kick from the guard and took off around the dining table.

“Is this one yours, missy?” the captain asked me.

“He a little yellow monkey,” the wounded man said.

Walter had spotted the ham and was trying to pull himself onto the table. The captain approached him, broke off a piece of bread from the loaf, and offered it to the creature, who shook his head vehemently, emitting a high-pitched whine and stretching out his arms to the ham.

“He don’t want no bread,” the wounded man observed.

“What his name?” the captain said to me.

“Walter,” I said.

“Tell him to stop that noise,” he said. I shrugged.

“He don’t hear,” Sarah said.

The captain regarded her closely, drew the obvious conclusion, and laughed. “Miss High Yellow got herself a little redheaded monkey,” he said. He raised the butt of the pistol and brought it down with a sharp crack across the side of Walter’s head. The child crumpled to the carpet, kicked his legs up, moaned once, then lay still.

No one spoke. I realized that my palms were damp, my mouth strangely dry. I glanced at Sarah, who had laid her hand across her mouth and closed her eyes, and then at the wounded man. His attendant had finished the bandaging. The captain went to him and petted his head. “How bad is it?” he said. The man looked up into his face with a bemused smile, raised his arm a few inches, and winced. “Not too bad,” he said.

“Where is this devil done clipped my Crow?” the captain asked, strutting away to join the two at the doors. Walter moved his arm, opened his eyes, but made no sound. So he wasn’t dead.

The captain stood between his men, gazing out into the night. He was a trim, bandy-legged man with a big head, two shades darker and half a foot shorter than his companions. He was running straight to the gallows and he knew it. All I could hope was that I might live to see that day.

We could hear the unmistakable sound of a horse’s hooves coming across the grass, fast, at a gallop. “Damn,” the captain said and ran onto the porch, waving his pistol. One of the men followed; the other turned on us, jabbing his knife menacingly. “Get yourselves together there,” he said, pointing to the table. Sarah and I did as he directed and stood with our backs to the table, not daring to look at each other. We heard a shot alongside the house. The man who had been guarding the front door ran past the casements.

The horse was getting very close; in the next moment I expected to see it come crashing into the room. I felt a pull at my skirt and looked down at Walter. His mouth was opening and closing and a stream of drool poured onto the carpet.

A torch went up outside, and I saw the horse hurtling toward the house, its big head lifted, fighting the bit. Just as it was about to collide with the porch columns, it veered, pitching into the azaleas. It was my husband’s bay gelding, rider-less, the reins tangled in the saddle. Quickly it recovered its footing, backed out of the bushes, and stood trembling on the drive. The torch came behind it.

Every one of us in that room stood transfixed, trying to make out the exact positions of the two men walking in the torchlight. One was the captain, his chest thrust out, his hands resting on his hips. The other, walking with an odd, shambling gait, holding the torch high in one hand, and in the other a pistol pointed steadily at the head of his captive, was my husband.

THEY PASSED THE horse, which ambled away into the darkness, and came across the drive to the house. As they entered the room, my husband thrust the torch at the remaining guard, who backed away nervously. The men were all riveted by the pistol, but I was fascinated by the change in my husband. He was smeared from head to toe with mud and blood. His neck was gashed and blood had poured down his chest, soaking his shirt, which was torn nearly to shreds. His hair was wild, standing out on one side, packed flat with mud on the other. His eyes burned with excitement. He jabbed the pistol at his captive’s temple and said, “Now just don’t move.” The wounded man sat forward in his chair and said, “Oh, Lord.”

“Just do what he say,” the captain ordered.

“That’s right,” my husband said. “Manon, come stand behind me.” I did as he said. He’s going to save me, I thought, and a great perplexity came upon me. I was looking at his back, which was bloody from the waist down. Everyone was still but Walter, who groaned once, clutched his head in his hands, and sat up.

“Now we will walk out the door,” my husband said. “Just the three of us.” I looked back at Sarah, who was edging away from the table, her eyes on the wounded negro. Did my husband mean Sarah? But no, he meant the captain; that was the three of us. My husband pressed the barrel of the pistol into the captain’s ear and backed him toward the door.

Then we were outside, walking on the drive. The horse stood farther off on the lawn, calmly ripping up grass. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I went ahead, pulling my skirt up about my legs. There was one thought in my head, and that was to get to the horse. The captain was speaking. I dimly apprehended the purport of his message, that we were outnumbered, that it made little difference whether he was killed or not, my husband would not survive, he was a dead man.

“I am. You are,” my husband replied. “It’s just a question of who goes first.”

“Thas right,” the captain said. “Thas right.”

Perfect, I thought. They are in agreement.

The torch was growing dimmer with every second. I could make out the dining room doors and someone inside moving toward them. Where was the one with the rifle, who had run into the night at the sound of the horse? I scanned the bushes. The farther we got from the house, the darker it became. If I did get to the horse, which way should I ride? I heard voices from the house, raised, anxious, then a crash as if someone had dropped a tray of glasses. The sound of rapid footsteps came toward us across the lawn. My husband stopped, looked back, still keeping his pistol close to the captain’s ear, and I looked too. An eerie pale figure whirled toward us, its feet barely touching the ground.

After that everything happened quickly, though it felt as if time itself had fallen open like a book, and each new impression was completed, even recollected, before the next began. Walter, for of course it was he, threw himself at my husband’s legs with such force that he stumbled, cursing; the captain took advantage of his imbalance to knock the pistol from his hand. I fell to my knees, trying to reach the pistol. The captain kicked me in the face so hard that I sprawled upon the ground. Suddenly there were others running in all directions. A guard appeared, his butcher knife slicing the air before him, and gave chase to my husband, who had shaken Walter from his legs and was running. I got to my hands and knees. Sarah appeared outside the dining room doors, her hair and skirts flying, headed for the side of the house. My husband disappeared into a copse of crepe myrtle, his pursuer followed. I got to my feet and took a few steps toward the horse. The captain, having recovered the pistol, aimed it at me, shouting, “Stay there.” Another figure came running out from alongside the house, Sarah shouted, and the two ran to one another. Sarah changed directions, barely breaking her stride, and continued in the direction of the horse. “Where is the
man
?” the captain complained to me. Another guard, an enormous man brandishing a cane cutter, came lumbering up from nowhere, closing in on Sarah. To elude him she turned toward me. My face and chin were wet. I put my hand to my cheek and felt a gash in the flesh. It must have been his toenail, I thought. Blood was flooding my mouth; in the fall I’d bitten through my lip. As Sarah approached, her pursuer paused to light a torch.

In the blaze of light much was revealed. Walter collided with Sarah and clung to her skirt. I saw her face, her rage and desperation as she struggled to free herself. “Let me go,” she cried, kicking the creature, who released her, wailing in distress. Something was moving in the darkness just beyond the light. Sarah turned, pointed into the blackness, and shouted to the guard, who was very near her, “He there.” The captain walked away from me, blocking my view for a moment. In the next I saw a hellish tableau.

My husband was on his knees, struggling to rise. The big man held him by his hair. Sarah stood near him, clutching her baby close against her shoulder, her eyes on the cane knife, which the man raised high over his head. In the next moment the knife came down. There was the sickening sound of steel breaking through bone, and my husband’s head dropped forward into his chest at an impossible angle. The captain hailed his comrade, who stepped back to admire his handiwork. For a moment my husband was still, as if he might stand up; then he collapsed sidelong onto the grass. Sarah was running straight toward me. In my shock I failed to see that I stood between her and the horse, but by the time she was close I understood and reached out to stop her, catching her by the elbow. She turned on me in a fury, tearing at my face with her free hand, her sharp nails digging into my already wounded cheek. “They won’t hurt you,” I said. “Let me go first. They’ll kill me if you don’t.” She kicked me, knocking me aside, but I caught her again by the shoulder. She spun around quickly, loosening my grip, and sank her teeth into my hand. I cried out, released her, and she left me behind, running full out for the horse. I went after her, nearly catching up at one point. As I ran, I could hear the men laughing. Sarah outdistanced me, sprang into the saddle, startling the horse so that he reared, came down, sidestepped one way, then the other. Somehow, clutching the baby across her stomach, she gathered up the reins, gave a hard kick and took off, her skirt billowing out behind her.

The sound of the horse’s hooves tearing up the grass, the sight of her bent low over the animal’s neck, confounded me. Absurd questions distracted me from my own peril: Where had she learned to ride like that? What direction would she take? Was she going for help? Then the sound of human feet pounding the ground restored me to what was left of my senses. I knew only enough to run, to keep running. I heard the captain shout, the report of the pistol, which seemed not loud, far away, yet at the same time there was a searing, astounding pain in my shoulder, and I understod that I had been hit.

I kept running. There was no cover. I had no idea where I was, what direction to take. The house was somewhere behind me, overrun with murderers. If I could get to the quarter, surely someone would protect me. It was black, the ground riddled with roots that tripped me and nettle grass that cut my feet like razors. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my flimsy shoes. Gradually the ground seemed to decline beneath my feet, the grass thinned, and the earth became wet and cool. At last there were branches, bushes, places to hide. I could hear them still behind me, still in pursuit, so I pressed on, feeling my way by clutching at limbs and seeking the driest ground with my feet. My skirt caught on every bramble. I paused long enough to pull it up between my legs and knot it above my knees. Insects swarmed around my head; my hand closed on something sinuous and leathery. I recoiled, losing my balance, and sat down hard on a tree root. I could hear the men’s voices, not as close, but not far enough. Keep going, I told myself, and got to my feet. Something skittered across the ground; a bat whirred overhead. I took a few steps, holding my hands out before me. I was standing in a few inches of water. Wrong way, I thought, and changed direction, but the next steps only brought the icy water to my knees. Wrong way, I told myself again, turning once more. This time my feet found less water, more mud; mud to my shins. I slogged through it. My shoulder had turned into a throbbing mass; the pain made me groan with every step. Insects flew into my mouth and eyes, buzzing louder and louder until I couldn’t hear anything else. They will eat me alive, I thought.