“Morris, he dead, that Morris.”
There was another collective sound from Cudgel’s audience, another half-gasp, half-groan.
“They say he been shot, Morris,” Cudgel said. “Say a man from the camp did the shooting, them. But I take a man wherever you say, me. I take him Morris wife, you want.”
“Yes. To Mrs. Morris. Yes, that would be good.”
Nick listened to this discussion with only partial attention. His mind was factoring Cudgel’s presence into his plans, this strange, stealthy swamp man who lived by his wits and by hunting, who carried a rifle over one shoulder and knew the country like the back of his hand.
“Mr. Cudgel,” he said, “I think we may have to fight, whether you get a chance to talk to Mrs. Morris or not. If we don’t fight to defend ourselves, we may have more people taken from the camp and killed before any help can come. You have a gun, you hunt and trap—can you help us fight?” There was a sudden silence in the small group. Cudgel considered Nick’s words, then nodded. “I do what you want, me. But if you can fight, what for you here? You got guns, you men, why never you shoot a mess o’ Kluxer ’long time back?”
“We only have a few handguns,” Nick said. “Everything else was taken. But I’m making other weapons—claymore mines, if you know what those are.”
“He quoi!” Cudgel said in surprise, and a moment later a sudden broad smile lit his face. He held up a hand, thumb crooked over his fist, and he pressed the thumb down. “Took,” he said, a little falsetto birdlike sound.
Nick realized, to his astonishment, that Cudgel was miming his thumb pressing the button of a detonator.
“I know them claymores, me,” Cudgel said. “I serve in Army, fight them V.C. I fight in Delta, me, I fight in Vinh Long, in Can Tho.” He raised his fist again, crooked his thumb. “Took. No more V.C. I creep them Congs, them V.C, just like I creep the goose. I get my name in Delta, me.” I get my name in Delta. Realization flooded Nick’s mind as he looked into Cudgel’s beaming face.
“Your name isn’t Cudgel,” he said suddenly. “It’s Cudjo, isn’t it?” The man nodded. “Cudjo, c’est moi. I get the name in Vietnam, me.”
“That’s an African name,” Nick said. “A warrior name.”
Pride straightened Cudjo’s shoulders, glimmered in his yellow eyes. “C’est vrai,” he said. “I a warrior, me. Get in trouble down Plaquemines Parish, come here to live. Never touch them liquors and drugs no more, for true.”
Astonished hope beat in Nick’s heart. “You can help us fight, can’t you?” he said.
“Si, with them claymores.” He took the rifle gun from his lap and held it out to Nick. “You take my gun, you. Kill them Kluxers. I help.”
Nick took the gun, looked at it in surprise. “I’m not very good with a rifle,” he said. “But I’ll make sure it goes to someone who can use it.”
“Take these shells, you.” Cudjo dug in the pockets of his old coat, dropped cartridges into Nick’s hand. Little ones, he realized, .22s.
“I don’t want to leave you without a rifle,” Nick said. “I’m sure you can use this better than anyone.”
“That my squirrel gun, there,” Cudjo said. “Only a two-two. When I come back tomorrow, me, I bring my deer gun, yes? Thirty-ought-six.”
Nick was almost blinded by sudden possibility. Even Cudjo’s little .22 would make a difference to the camp. Fired from cover it could make the deputies keep their heads down, if nothing else. And when Cudjo returned with his deer rifle, his .30-’06, he could do a lot of damage from the cover of the woods, and with reasonable safety to himself.
Eagerness seized Nick. “Let me tell you what I’m planning,” he said. He unrolled his entire plan for Cudjo, while the woodsman listened, nodded, and asked questions. Then Cudjo analyzed Nick’s plan, took it apart, and reassembled it in an altered, more perfected form.
“Yes,” Nick said. “Yes, I see.”
“Kill them Kluxers, take them Kluxers out, before you push the people on, yes? You no run them into guns, you.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Direction you want run, that depend. No use planning too much, plans go to hell when shooting starts.” No plan survives contact with the enemy, Nick thought. His father had said that. “I understand,” he said.
“Can you take the women and kids to where it will be safe?” Nick asked.
“I try, me.”
“But what about getting someone out?” someone else asked. “What about Mrs. Morris?”
“You give me someone, you, I take him,” said Cudjo.
“It’s important that Cudjo be there with his rifle,” Nick said.
“If we can get word out, there won’t be a need for guns.”
Nick considered an argument in favor of keeping Cudjo near the camp instead of running errands. Cudjo was an asset; he was the most hopeful thing that had occurred in the camp’s entire miserable history. Sneaking someone away with him, someone who might not be so good at creeping the goose as Cudjo, seemed an unnecessary risk to Nick’s asset. And sending Cudjo off on an errand to Mrs. Morris’s house, when he might be needed in the camp, seemed dangerous.
But on the other hand, the idea of contacting the outside was seductive. It meant no one inside the camp had to take any risks, or fight other battles. All they had to wait was for Mrs. Morris to call in the U.S. Cavalry. Nick could see how the others were attracted by the idea, how much they wanted to escape this situation without having to fight a war.
“Listen,” Nick said. “We don’t want to risk Cudjo. We don’t want to risk him in the company of someone who’s less expert at—” his tongue stumbled “—at creeping the goose.” Whispers flurried at him in urgent debate. The only person who held Nick’s point of view was Tareek Hall, the conspiracy theorist, who said that there wasn’t any point in sending for help, that the authorities were all part of the conspiracy anyway. But Tareek and Nick were clearly outnumbered.
“Send Cudjo out first,” Nick finally said. “Your messenger can go next. That way if he’s—” He was about to say killed, then changed it. “If he’s caught,” he said, “then Cudjo won’t be caught with him.” There was more whispered debate, but Cudjo ended the debate himself. “I reckon Nick right, me. I be better alone, for true.”
The committee members chose one of their number as their messenger, a thirtyish woman named Nora. She was small and nimble, had taught gymnastics, and it was hoped that speed and agility would aid her escape. The fact that she was a woman might make her less threatening to the locals she would approach for help. She listened eagerly when Cudjo gave her instructions—vague hints, really—for avoiding the guards’ attention. Nick approached the chain link with Cudjo, then hesitated. “I shouldn’t come to the fence,” he said. “I might be seen.”
“Can’t see nothing, them guards,” Cudjo said. “That light along the fence, it make dark behind. Can you see the woods from here, Nick? They should point their lights into the camp, those Kluxers, they want to see in here.”
Nick gazed past the fence in surprise. Cudjo was right. The spotlights, trained parallel to the fence, created a comparative darkness on either side. The pathway along the fence was brightly lit, but the camp itself was shrouded, and so were the woods on the other side of the lane.
“You kiss you lady for me, yes?” Cudjo said. His yellow teeth flashed for a moment, and then he stepped from Nick’s presence and was gone.