Sometimes he almost did. A lot of men did. For some the burden became too heavy; they put distant wives and sweethearts ahead of duty and deserted. He would never join that company, yet he did recognize that the cancer of worry was in him, too. He knew it while he clasped her body and kissed her clean, soft hair. "Go to Richmond," he pleaded.
She broke the embrace. "Charles, this is my home. I'll not run away."
"It's no admission of cowardice to go for a week or two. Until Hooker moves, and something's decided."
"What if the Yankees came when I wasn't here? What if they looted this place or burned it? It's all I have."
"They can loot it and burn it with you standing in the kitchen."
"Richmond's too crowded. There is no place —"
"My cousin and his wife will take you in. Boz and Washington, too. I stopped to see Orry and Madeline on the way up from Sussex County. They don't have much room, but they'll share what they have."
She sank back on her haunches, bringing her forearms across her breasts as if she were cold. "It would be a great deal of trouble to pack and —"
"Gus, stop. You're a proud woman. Strong. I love that about you. But goddamn it —"
"I wish you wouldn't curse all the time."
The soft words conveyed her anger as nothing had before. He took a breath and grasped the post at the foot of the bed to steady himself. '
"I'm sorry. But the point stands. Pride and strength and two nigras aren't enough to protect you against Joe Hooker's army. You need to go to Richmond, if not for your own sake, then for mine."
"For your sake —?"
"That's right."
"I see."
"You take that tone, I'll sleep in the other room."
"I think you'd better."
Out he went, wrapped in a blanket, slamming the door.
Just at daylight, he stole back in, whispered her name, started when she sat up, wide awake. From the raw look of her cheeks, he knew she had gotten little sleep.
He held out his hand. "I'm sorry."
They embraced, dismissed the quarrel, and over breakfast she said yes, all right, she'd close up the place and travel to Richmond before the week was out if he could get her a pass. He promised he would. He wrote directions to Orry and Madeline's and went over them with her. Things were all right again. Superficially. For a man and woman to fall in love in times like these was folly, and each had acknowledged it.
Later that morning, he prepared to leave. "I'll stop in Richmond and tell them you'll be coming."
They were standing in the dooryard. She put her arms around him, kissed him, and said, "I love you, Charles Main. You must not worry about me."
"Oh, no, never. And Old Abe will raise the Stars and Bars in Atlanta tomorrow."
He mounted, waved, and cantered to the road. After he had gone a half mile he reined in to look back, but a rattling column of caissons raised dust and forced him to the shoulder. He could see only sweating horses and grinding wheels. At last the column passed. The dooryard was empty.
When he returned to the brigade in Sussex County, he lied to Ab, saying the visit had been a fine one.
75
"Miss Jane, I have got to confess —"
He had walked her to the stoop of her cabin in the dusk, tightening up his nerve along the way. She smiled to encourage him.
"I love you. I pray for the day I'm a free man and can ask for your hand."
He had flirted with the declaration before but never said it outright. The words made her warm and happy. She looked at Andy against a background of cabins and overhanging trees and mist rolling in from the river to fill the spaces between. The hidden sun lit the mist to a dusty rose color. Softly, she said, "The day will come. When it does, I'll be proud to say yes."
He clapped his hands. "Great God! I'd kiss you if there weren't so many people watching."
Laughing, too, she said, "I don't see anyone." She pecked his cheek and ran inside. She leaned against the door, clasping her hands against the cleft of her breast. "Oh, my. Oh, my."
Then the smell assaulted her. The smell of a dirty body and spirits. It wrenched her mind, gripped her attention. He was lounging against the whitewashed wall, his eyes bleary. Where had he gotten whiskey? Stolen it from the house?
"How dare you sneak in here, Cuffey. Get out."
He didn't move. Giving her a sly smile, he reached down and fingered himself. "I heard what that nigger said. He loves you." The dark brown hand loosened one button after another until he could show her what was underneath. "He can't do it near as good as me."
"You drunken, foul-minded —"
Cuffey let go of himself and ran at her. Jane cried out and groped for the door latch. He caught her shoulder, yanking her so hard she stumbled. Then someone struck the other side of the door, driving her over to the other wall. She hit with a jolt, dazed, not seeing the door crash back or Andy peering in. Anxious blacks crowded the little porch.
Cuffey said, "Shut that door, nigger. Go do what you do bes' — kiss ol' Meek's backside."
Andy quickly took it in: Jane slumped by the wall, bracing herself with her hands, Cuffey stuffing his dangling organ back into his pants. Andy tilted his head downward slightly and walked into the cabin.
Cuffey picked up an old stool and swept it in an arc, striking Andy's head. One leg of the stool broke; somehow the splintered end drew blood from Andy's temple. The blood streamed into his eye as he jumped at Cuffey and aimed a powerful but mistimed punch. Cuffey easily avoided it, then jabbed at Andy's eye with the splintered leg.
"Let him be. Wait for help," Jane pleaded. If Andy heard, he paid no attention. He walked forward like a soldier in a skirmish line, upright, scared, but never wavering. He laced his hands together to create a double fist. Cuffey kicked him between the legs.
Andy doubled over, letting out a clenched, hurt sound. But he stayed on his feet. He lifted his joined hands and struck Cuffey where his neck met his left shoulder, a sideways blow that shot Cuffey against the wall and made him grunt explosively.
"You been begging somebody to do this," Andy said, looming over the other man, pounding downward with his joined hands. He slammed the top of Cuffey's head. This time Cuffey yelled. Andy began to hammer him like a nail, pushing him down to a crouch, then to his knees, working in sideways blows to the face for good measure. Cuffey's ear bled.
"Watch out, Andy, Mist' Meek comin'," someone called from the street. Jane stood, saw the blacks on the porch disappear and the overseer stride into view, pulling a pistol from his wide belt.
"Who's fighting in here?"
"Cuffey and Andy," a woman answered, just as Andy raised Cuffey by the front of his soiled shirt. Blood leaked from Cuffey's nose as well as his ear. He blew the blood and mucus into Andy's face.
"I kill you, nigger. You an' everybody on this place."
"Let him go, Andy," Meek ordered from the doorway. Andy turned toward the overseer. The blood from his temple blurred his vision a little. Cuffey saw his chance and gave his adversary a shove.
Andy staggered, thrown back against the overseer. Cuffey tore down the flour-sack curtains Jane had tacked over the back window. He flipped one leg over the sill. "Give me room to shoot," Meek shouted, pushing Andy.