"But we can't work without wages," Andy said. "Not now."
Cooper and Madeline exchanged looks signifying mutual consent. "I agree," Cooper said. "It's possible now, thanks to George."
"Then we'll stay," Andy said. "If we decide we made the wrong choice — if either of us decides that — we'll tell you and go. We don't answer to anyone but each other anymore."
Cooper responded with a small, quick nod of agreement. "I hope you won't ever reach that decision. I need you both very much."
Jane smiled. Relieved expressions showed on the faces of the others. Andy stepped forward.
"One other thing —"
"Yes?" Judith said.
"We want to get married."
There was a burst of congratulations, abruptly stilled when Andy went right on in a level voice. "But not the old way. Not by jumping over brooms. And we're both going to change our names. Jane and Andy are slave names. They were given to us. We want to pick our own."
Tense silence. Then Cooper simply raised his hand.
"Fine."
Madeline smoothed her skirt as she rose. "Can't we find something for a toast to the engaged couple?"
Smiling broadly, Andy put his arm around Jane again. "I'm so happy I'd settle for water out of the well."
"I think I remember something better," Judith said, raising the curtain that screened the kitchen. "Yes, here it is," she called from the attached pantry closet. She emerged smiling. "You gentlemen didn't finish Wade Hampton's peach brandy — thank goodness."
She poured a tiny amount for each of them as they fell into relaxed, companionable conversation. George, who had drawn the fruit jar, raised it to salute Andy and Jane.
"I wish you both the best. It won't be easy for you down here, at least not in the immediate future. But I'm not certain it would be much better up North."
With a touch of sadness, Jane said, "I know. Black faces do threaten people somehow. Scare them. Well, I can't help that. We'll come through just fine. You fought to free us, Major Hazard, so now we must take up the fight. I do expect many more battles before white people even start to accept us."
In the uneasy silence that followed, Cooper frowned and Billy admitted to himself that Jane was right. He need only examine his own attitudes of a couple of years ago. Though one war was over, he shared his brother's belief that another was just starting.
140
OPIN AGIN said the sign hanging crookedly on the front of a large log building just outside Goldsboro, North Carolina. Charles reached it right before dark. The weather was surprisingly cool for May. Rain had started an hour ago, and he had wrapped himself in the robe of rags and scraps.
A smaller line on the sign proclaimed, Confedrate Bills Prodly Acepted Here! Charles had nine hundred dollars' worth of those — back pay — stuffed in his shirt and pants pockets. He pitied a man who would try to run a business on pride and worthless currency, but he would accept that kind of lunatic hospitality tonight. He didn't want to sleep in the open again, especially with the rain, and hunt for an orchard or coop to rob for food.
A black boy led his mule away, promising a good rubdown and feed. Charles entered the main room of the roadside tavern, a drab place with a few desolate-looking men sitting about, talking, or lazily clicking pieces across a checkerboard. A fire brightened the stone hearth.
Charles ordered whiskey, a plate of lamb barbecue, and purchased a cigar from the innkeeper. He discovered the man had several rusty guns for sale and a few old boxes of ammunition. One contained shells that would fit his .48 army Colt. Elated, he bought the whole box for fifty Confederate dollars.
While he was eating, a man of about forty came noisily downstairs from the sleeping rooms under the eaves. He rubbed his hands at the fire while Charles tried to avoid his eye.
But the man forced conversation on him. He had a pink face, curly hair gone prematurely white, and a mouth downcast in a curve of perpetual suffering. He introduced himself as Mordecai Woodvine, itinerant salesman of Bibles and Christian tracts.
"Sure hope business picks up soon. Sure has been terrible the past couple of years. I hate traveling anymore. Too many uppity free niggers all over the place. But the work I do is God's work, so I guess I oughtn't complain." So saying, he continued to look miserable.
He sat down without invitation and insisted on knowing Charles's name and whether he had been in the army.
"Yes, I was. I scouted for Hampton's cavalry."
"The cavalry! There's plenty on that subject in Revelations. 'And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.'" Through the smoke of his cigar, Charles could be seen scowling. Woodvine poked a finger at heaven, intoning, " 'And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth —' "
With intentional rudeness, Charles interrupted. "I'd say that describes our work pretty well." He wanted to strangle the man for prompting memories of Sport.
The fool went right on. "My cousin Fletcher was a cavalryman out west. Rode with Bedford Forrest — there's one good old rebel who won't tolerate this nigger freedom, I'll tell you. Fletcher got captured, and do you know what happened to him?"
Charles was on his feet. He indicated no interest in the answer, but got it anyway.
"They offered him a choice. Prison — or the Yankee cavalry. That's right, they shipped him to a regiment out on the plains somewhere. To fight Indians. There are a goodly number of our boys doing that, I'm told. They're called galvanized Yankees."
He leaned forward. "You understand, don't you? Galvanized metal is iron coated with zinc to keep out rust. A galvanized Yankee is a Confederate wearing a blue —"
"I know the meaning of galvanized."
"Oh. Oh, well — I thought maybe you didn't. Anyway, if you hanker to stay in some army, you might keep it in mind. That is, if you could stand to serve with men who brought this plague of emancipation upon us. I couldn't stand it. I'd puke my guts out, if you'll pardon the indelicacy."
"Surely," Charles said, an almost malevolent glint in his eye. "Galvanized Yankees. Think of that. Tell me, Mr. Woodvine, in which branch did you serve?"
"Me? Why — uh — I didn't. I'm too old."
"You're over forty-five? You don't look it."
"But there are reasons — a physical impairment —"
"And you probably spent most of the war in the woods, selling Testaments to the trees and quoting Scripture to the saplings — where they couldn't find you. Am I right, Mr. Woodvine?"
"What? What's that?"
"Good night, Mr. Woodvine."
He walked away, heading for his room. On the stairs, he heard the parting shot.
"Drunken veterans — that's all you see anymore. The army taught them to love whiskey. Issued regular rations of it. Disgraceful, that's my opinion."
Charles wanted to turn, go back, and beat Woodvine bloody. Instead, he shut the door of his room and leaned against it. He was a fool to react angrily. He had no interest in the Bible salesman or his cousin. Much as he had come to love Texas while he was with the Second, he had no interest in continuing as a cavalryman. He had no interest in anything but reaching Spotsylvania County as quickly as possible.
Rain tapped the roof as he stretched out and pulled up the cover. He heard the rain leaking with a steady drip near the foot of the bed. Downstairs, made boisterous with drink, some of the desolate men started to sing.
Charles recognized the piece. He had heard "O I'm a Good Old Rebel" several times since leaving South Carolina. It was sung with great fervor now that Johnston's army had surrendered to Sherman near Durham Station.