“A boy?” came a voice from the room behind Feeney. “What’s he look like?” A young-old woman in a torn dress stepped onto the porch. Buck saw bruises on her arms.
This bastard’s been beating her too.
“Ma’am, he was in a tree down by the creek, has a withered right leg, said his name was Billy.”
“That’s my son!” She looked for him behind Buck. “Where is he? He all right?”
“He’s at our camp, ma’am. Needs a little patching up, but he’s fine.”
“Git back in the house, woman.” Feeney swung at her with his left hand while keeping the shotgun aimed at Buck with his right. She tried to duck out of his reach, but wasn’t fast enough. His fist connected with her shoulder and knocked her to the floor.
“Hold it, mister.” Buck’s body went rigid with rage. Control your temper, he told himself. Still, his free hand knotted. “Mister, there’s no call to—”
“Please, Zeb.” The woman pleaded as she started to pull herself upright. “I just want to find out about Billy.”
Feeney raised the shotgun to club her. “Damn you, woman, I said git in the house!”
Before the wretch could strike, Buck ripped the gun from his grasp, hurled it into the yard, and grabbed the scruff of the man’s shirt. His breath reeked of liquor.
“Ma’am, would you step inside a moment?” Buck said with exaggerated politeness.
The woman went wide-eyed, then straightened and staggered through the doorway.
Buck rammed the barrel of the Henry under Feeney’s chin, forcing his head back. “Now, you sorry bastard, you beat that boy?”
“It’s her kid, not mine.” Feeney squeezed the words out between yellow teeth.
“He complained Billy didn’t work hard enough,” the woman explained from inside. “The boy done the best he could—”
“Damn cripple. Good riddance, I say,” Feeney muttered, apparently so outraged he forgot the business end of a rifle was pressed against his chin. “Took her and her damn brats in to work the place, but they’re lazier ‘n niggers.”
“You worthless piece of scum.” Buck’s temper overpowered him. “Go to hell, Zeb Feeney.” The Henry jerked as if of its own accord and with a roar blew Feeney’s life away.
As the corpse tumbled to the porch, Buck released his grip, then turned. “Ma’am, you all right?”
“You killed him,” she said, her eyes wide.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, ma’am.”
The two of them stood gazing at the mortal remains of a creature who could scarcely have been classified as human, much less a man. She inched forward and let out a breath, as if she’d been holding it in a long time. At last she raised her eyes and gazed at Buck. For a moment he thought she was going to break into laughter, until she said, “Some men need killing.”
Still, he could see she was shaken.
“If you have a shovel, ma’am, I’ll start digging.”
“For all I care, you can dump his worthless carcass down the outhouse, mister. By the way, who are you?”
Buck shook his head. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I seem to have forgotten my manners. I’m Doctor . . . Major Thomson from the camp across the stream yonder.”
“I’m Martha Hewitt.” She retreated into the house and came out a minute later with a piece of croker sack. “Here, wrap him in this.”
Buck rolled the wretch’s body in the coarse material. “He kin to you?”
She walked ahead of him as he dragged the shroud toward the privy. “No kin to me, thank God.”
“You from around here?”
“Nah. Me and my husband, Caleb, worked a farm north of the James River. Times was hard before the war, but we got by. Caleb was a good man, did the best he could.”
Buck inspected the stinking outhouse. It wasn’t even suitable for holding waste. He started tearing off the lid above the hole. Martha took the pieces of wood from him and tossed them onto a pile.
“My first baby, a girl, died of fever soon after birth,” she babbled on. “The next one, Hannah, is nearly thirteen now. Then Billy was born with a twisted leg.” She stood beside Buck and grabbed the biggest plank with him. Together they wrenched it loose. “He done his share of the chores best he could.”
The hole exposed, Buck returned to the lump of what was once a human animal, dragged it over to the opening and with Martha’s help, shoved it into the cesspool.
“Damn you, Zeb Feeney,” she spat. Buck figured that was about all the funeral prayers the man would ever get or deserve.
“How’d you meet him?” Buck asked, as they walked back to the cabin.
“A couple of months ago Yankee foragers showed up at our place, stole everything they could carry, drove off all the stock and set fire to our house and barn. Caleb was trying to save his tools when the roof fell in on him. Me and the kids buried him, but there weren’t nothing to keep us there. I got kin somewheres in Tennessee, so we started walking south.”
As they reached the porch, she wiped her eyes again. “We was down to begging for food at an inn near Buckingham when Feeney said he’d give us food and shelter for work, no money. I didn’t like the loudmouth, but we was desperate. Soon found out he wasn’t no farmer like he said, but a moonshiner. Sold rot-gut to the soldiers on both sides. Bragged about all the gold he was making. Stayed drunk most of the time, beat me and the kids something awful, ‘specially Billy who couldn’t run.”
She paused, as if steeling herself to go on. “Last night he went after Hannah. I knew what he was up to and fought him off.” She lowered her head. “I yelled to Hannah to go hide in the woods. She’s a good girl.” Martha sighed and brushed away tears. “After Zeb passed out I took Billy to a tree near the creek and helped him climb up it. I was looking for his money, when a Confederate cavalry officer rode up this morning. I wanted to ask him for help, but Zeb woke up.”
Clay. He wanted to help her, and Buck congratulated him for not doing it.
“Thought you’d like to know, ma’am. Got word a while ago. General Lee’s surrendered. The war’s over.”
“Over? Praise the Lord.” She clutched her flat chest, closed her eyes and appeared to be giving thanks. After several seconds, she opened them again. “I need to collect my children. I’ll get Hannah and be over to the camp for Billy directly. We’ll stay here tonight, try to find Zeb’s gold and leave in the morning.”
Buck studied her. She was skinny to the point of emaciation and aged beyond the thirty-five years he reckoned her to be. “Mrs. Hewitt, will you and your children be all right here alone?”
“Major, this’ll be the best night we’ve had in a long time.” Tears started and she shook her head. “I ain’t gonna cry no more.”
No delicate southern belle, he concluded. A hard woman, but he said the words in his mind with admiration.
“One other thing,” he said. “You see anybody besides the cavalry officer go by here today?”
She nodded. “While Zeb was still asleep I heard shots, then a man galloped by on a bay. Poor nag was lame in the right foreleg. The rider didn’t seem to care.”
“What’d he look like?”
“Small. Had red hair. Was holding a bloody rag to his neck.”
So Billy was right. The sniper had come this way.
“Where was he heading?”
“East, into the woods.”
#
When Buck returned to the shack he found Billy sleeping and decided to make his rounds with Kentucky. Moving from litter to litter, he examined the stumps of limbs and the wasted bodies of men stricken with dysentery and other pestilential diseases. News of Lee’s surrender had torn through the ranks. Men wept with sorrow and relief, but mostly they talked about going home. Buck could see and hear signs of the return of hope and a desire to live. They’d survived. Many of them had lost limbs, lifelong reminders of the failed cause, but they were alive and now they saw a future.