In the distance Washington burned in ragged patches. My life burned with it. Battle flags fluttered in the breeze, indicating where the Confederates were having their jollies.
“Miss Jeannie, we need to go.”
I nodded and turned away, rubbing my wrists where the marks of long lost shackles remained, still remain. Ten years ago it took eight months to make my way from South Carolina to safety. I wasn’t staying. I’d go out west and, in California, I’d start again.
“Miss Jeannie, right now!”
The locomotive hissed and whistled, steam poured from release valves. Hitching my skirts I hurried and Gordon grabbed my elbow as I jumped for the carriage door, making my escape on the last train out of Washington.
Steaming south we got all the way to Manasass Junction before the track was too chewed up to continue. All the armies were going north so they figured us to be on their side, and not the refugees we were, especially as we played Gordon as my owner.
But the further south we had gone the more nervous I became. When the train was ushered into a siding I said to Gordon, “We should get off here. We need to get to safety.”
“Yes, Miss Jeannie. I’ll get us horses.”
He did, I didn’t ask where from, and we rode. Left most of our belongings and rode. In Washington I left behind a sumptuously decorated house on Delaware Avenue. Now I abandoned further riches; chests and traveling trunks filled with things I thought indispensable. It’s amazing how much you can leave behind when you’re worried about freedom.
Washington had been filled with life and sound. The smell of the baker, the butcher, soldiers defending our freedom, sailors and their odor of tar and salt. Now we rode into another America. There were fields, mostly untended in three years of fighting, and beyond the fields was the forest climbing upwards into the rolling hills and hollers of the Alleghennies.
In all this Gordon was a companion of devout attendance.
On the other side of the tree clad mountains we descended to a wide plain vast as the sea my parents had been sent across, chained to their tribal fellows.
“Where are we going, Miss Jeannie?” Gordon asked after two days without sight of fresh water and our canteens perilously close to empty.
Our horses walked with their heads bowed. We trudged beside them, weary, but unwilling to burden them with our weight. Today we could walk, tomorrow who knew?
I could not help but think on what led me to here. A child of slaves; an escaped slave; a woman, hardly, who sold and traded herself until she could sell and trade others. What was I now?
The sun rolled across the sky, a fierce ball which heated the grass that grew high as my mid-riff. We walked on, hats casting a tiny shadow which kept the worst of the sun from our faces. Gordon walked with a stoicism which inspired me. He’d told me of the walk from his family’s farm, in a remote part of southern Scotland, to the Lieth docks, where he abandoned a cruel apprenticeship and boarded a ship for the new world.
His tale was different to my parents by degrees of violence, yet he joined to me as a kindred spirit. A child of suffering. He would have fought, lost, with northern troops in a dozen battles, but for age, and his cleft palate. It made him sound simple and no battalion would accept him. But he tended my household well. He calmed the rowdy senator or soldier, fetched water and coals, despatched ashes, washed bedsheets. He was a trusted companion from before General Lee marauded north, violated our city, killed the country.
“Miss Jeannie!”
I looked up, Gordon’s tone was urgent. He pointed forward. I froze, halting next to his outstretched arm. We had heard of the southron war-walkers, machines in which a man sat and spat death at his enemies, at loyal soldiers of the republic. On the horizon two of these devil machines walked forward. The sun turned them into silhouettes, almost benign, but we knew of their potential and were struck with fear.
“Make the horses lie down,” I commanded.
Gordon tugged the reigns of his steed, encouraging it to lie. My mare was less biddable. She shook herself to action, snapping her head back and whinnying. I held tight and tried to pull, but she was far stronger than I. She took my pull on her bridle as a challenge and reared up. Her forelegs paddled the air over my head, I cowered from the threat. Gordon leapt to my rescue, grabbing the reigns and wresting her to the ground.
We lay and recovered our breath. The horses lay beside each other, as if nothing had happened. Gordon and I peered above the grass. A strong breeze blew it towards us, made us blink with dust. But we saw enough to know that we had remained undetected. The two war-walkers continued forward.
“We rest here until tomorrow, then go south for a stretch,” I said.
“A good plan, Miss Jeannie.”
We nestled against the equine heat of our fellow travelers and shivered through a night colder than the time of year should have given us, as if the heart of the continent lacked a source of heat. Yet we knew the west to be hot, to have deserts and a coast kissed by warm waters and sunlight. Tales of such had made their way to Washington, along with stories of gold nuggets the size of a man’s fist.
We slept.
The next day there was no sight of war-walkers and we moved on, heading south-west in hope of avoiding any contact. The plains rolled on. A vast tract of land with only humps or hollows to differentiate the flatness between. We came to a large pond and gave thanks for its wet coolness. The horses splashed in it like kittens. Gordon and I took the opportunity to bathe, first him, then me. The horses whinnied in joy, we laughed. It was the first time any of us felt comfortable since we crossed the Alleghenies. Afterwards we tied the horses to a tree, and lay to sleep in some shade.
When I woke two war-walkers towered above us like demons looming over new entrants to the realms of fire and fear. I screamed, it was involuntary. My dreams had contained these very machines and waking to see them felt like I had summoned them.
Gordon woke at my scream and reached for his Colt. The head of the walker nearest him dipped forward slightly so that the gun barrels on its shoulders pointed directly towards him. He eased his hand back and looked at me.
There was a clang of metal on metal from the other machine. A flap appeared to have opened at the back and feet appeared, descending foot holds built into the machines legs.
The soldier wore Confederate uniform trousers, but only a grubby singlet above. His arms were the color white skin takes when exposed to the sun continually from a young age, burnished like walnut. His arms were thick and he rolled his shoulders, looking as if he was loosening of tired muscles. There couldn’t have been much space for him inside the machine. Good. I hoped it was uncomfortable.
I fought to retain an air of calmness, while inside I roiled with fear. As the Confederates rolled north they declared a bounty on ex-slaves, whether manumitted or escaped. And there was no demand that capturees be returned in pristine condition. Of course, I had skills which might permit an opportunity to escape. I doubted Gordon would leave here alive.
The soldier continued to stare. His eyes were somewhere between steel grey and blue and they went well with hair that was dark sand in color, not light enough for blonde, but darker than brown.
Finally he spoke.
“So, what’s a negress and a hare-lip doing all the way out here on the plains?”
His accent threw me. I got to hear a lot of accents in my line of work and I was rarely wrong.
“Iowa’s a rare home for a copperhead,” I replied, ignoring his question and accusing him of being a Northerner who fought for the Confederate cause.
His face flashed with anger. The skin round his eyes wrinkled, the line of his lips hardened. “This unionist is no copperhead, Ma’am.” The last word was almost spat out.
“Then how come you have their devil machines to walk around in?”
“Because we killed the secesher sumbitches and took them. Pardon my language.” Though his accent was from Iowa it appeared he’d picked up phrases from some who lived further south.
“So, you’re not slave bounty hunters?”
“No, Ma’am. We’re not. Just two union soldiers heading west so we don’t have to watch Confederate gloating and evils.” He turned, and waved at the other war-walker, it seemed to be an indication that all was okay. “What about you two?” he asked, turning back.
“Gordon and I fled Washington as Lee led his filthy men into the city. I have no desire to return to manacles.”
The hatch in the other walker clanged and its rider climbed out. He did a set of shoulder and neck stretches similar to his compatriot.
“What we got here, Jeb,” he called.
“Gordon and Miss,” he looked at me and raised an eyebrow.
“Brash,” I said.
“Gordon and Miss Brash are fleeing the Confederates.”
“Oh, good, allies. Where you going?”
“California,” I said.
“You’re traveling light for that trip,” Soames said.
“We had more, it’s on a train in a railway siding. How far west are you soldiers going?”
They both shrugged.
Jeb said, “Until we find a nice piece of land to build a couple of farms where we can have big happy families, and forget all about the war.”
For the first time I noticed that one of the walkers was hitched with a small wagon. Probably containing the tools they needed later on, and supplies for now.
There was silence, four strangers in the middle of nowhere. I wondered if we were all thinking the same thing. “Any chance we could travel together for a while?” I asked.
Jeb and Soames looked at each other, eyebrows raised. I wondered how long these men had fought together, what bonds they had forged in bloody battle. They were communicationg, but no words were being exchanged. Finally they nodded in unison and turned back.
“Sure,” Soames said. “What direction you heading?”
Gordon laughed, I had to smile myself.
“That’s more planning than we had time to make,” I said.
We built a fire and, between us, planned a route.
§
The three wagons came into view when we crested a small rise. We were far to the south of the Oregon Trail and didn’t expect to meet any settlers, but this is America and there’s always someone looking to strike out on their own, to not follow the herd. It hadn’t worked out so well for this group.
The canvas covers on all three wagons were ripped and flapping in the breeze. And there were no horses in sight. Wagons without a horses are useless.
Soames went ahead to flush out any threat. A person stuck out here alone may be desperate and look to shoot before asking questions. We continued plodding forward, a pace designed to stop the horses from wearing out, or the walkers burning through their fuel to quickly. The engines inside them were wonderfully efficient in ways I don’t pretend to understand but, with few trees out here on the plains, using fuel, and finding water, were big considerations.
Soames climbed out of his walker and waved to us. The sign that there was no threat.
The settlers had kept a journal. Their last entry was over a year ago and told a tale of vomiting and diarrhea, of children dying and then others, until just the writer remained, her handwriting deteriorating and becoming a patchy scrawl.
The bodies were mostly gone, eaten by scavengers. Some bones remained, but they’d been gnawed and were scattered about.
“What should we do?” Gordon asked.
“Gather the bones,” Soames said. “They deserve to be buried.”
We picked up all the bones we could find and used a shovel and pick, from one of the wagons, to dig a hole. After we covered the bones Soames gave a few words, recalled from his year in a seminary before the war.
Standing in the hot sun I thought of other funerals, other burials. Slaves who succumbed to the heat, and the beatings, and the abuse. Whatever service the owners allowed we sat through obediently. But when night fell we went into the swamp and asked our own prayers, offered our own sacrifices.
While the men started looking through the wagons I knelt by the grave and burnt a crow’s feather, praying Loa protect the fallen, and that she forgive me for not having an eagles’s feather.
Later we lit a fire and discussed what had been found.
“There’s all the tools that could be needed to start a homestead,” Jeb said. “More than we’ve got in our small trove.”
“Can we take them?” I asked.
“I don’t see that anyone will object, Miss Jeannie,” Gordon said.
I shook my head. “No, I mean, can we physically take them? The horses can take one each. Can the spare walker take the other?”
It could,” Jeb said. “But I don’t think we should. Load up everything into the two wagons, take the wheels as spare, the axles too. Use the rest of the wood for fuel. It gives us everything we need, and keeps the second walker free for roving as required.”
“It’s a good plan,” Soames said.
The next day Soames and Gordon worked on stripping the emptied third wagon down. Jeb followed my directions in packing the other two.
“I saw you burning a feather over the grave yesterday,” he said. “Why?”
“It’s a traditional blessing from the Carolinas,” I said. It was true, though not all the detail I could have given him.
“My gramma collected feathers,' he said. 'Stitched them into our clothing, kept them around the lintels and doors. I asked her why.” He shoved a box into place and turned round, lowered himself to sit on the edge of the wagon. He stared into my face. “She said it was keep evil spirits away.”
“It sounds like I would have got on with your gramma.”
“I think you would. She liked people who were strong. You have beautiful eyes.”
That took me by surprise.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and blushed.
“Never be sorry for complimenting a lady. You have nice eyes as well.” He blushed an even deeper red.
“I should get on,” he said.
He dropped down to the ground and walked over to the third wagon, calling to Soames. His calm, measured, stride had a hurried note. His embarrassment was sweet, unexpected. I felt my heart race a little and I couldn’t help but smile. There was something about Jebediah Clarron which did that to me. It felt nice.
When, as dusk fell and our bodies were weary, we sat to eat he made sure it wasn’t next to me, but we kept finding each others eyes. Small furtive glances which said nothing, but were nonetheless eloquent.
Between then and getting underway the next morning he said no more to me than “Goodnight, Miss Jeannie.” Yet each silence, each casual glance when he thought I wasn’t looking was doing things to me that had not happened in a long time. They’d stirred the first day we’d met and were getting steadily stronger. At this rate, I’d have to do something about them.
§
We came to a river. It was too deep to cross. We camped for the night before looking for a crossing point. I went to find a suitable bathing area. After days of dust and sweat I wanted to be clean again. The water ran swift and loud and above that the wind continued to blow as it had from when we came down off the Alleghenies. Still, I should have heard the rattle.
The first I knew the snake was there was when it struck, and I screamed. One fang hit the top of my boot, the other slid into my calf. The pain was sharp, instant, and agonizing. Instinct drove me back, and it saved me from a second attack which landed on the thick leather covering my toes. The snake had been coiled under an overhang, which the sun must have made like a small oven. I just hadn’t seen it. Now it swayed, threatening to strike again, I stumbled back further, feet scrabbling on the rock.
A hand grabbed me, dragging me out of reach as the creature decided I was still a threat and lunged again. A shotgun boomed, and the snake was snatched back, pellets shredding it to a lifeless ribbon.
Jebediah held my arm, his grip was firm and warm, the calloused hand reassuring as my heart raced. Gordon held the shotgun. My ears rang from the shot but that wasn’t worrying me. My leg stung and throbbed.
“Did it bite you?” Jeb asked.
I nodded, and pointed at my leg while biting my lip to prevent me screaming in pain.
“Quick, sit down, he said. “We need to get your boot off.”
Gordon held me as I slumped to the ground. Jeb was already worrying at my laces. When his thick fingers couldn’t get into the tight knot he slid out his Bowie knife and sliced my boot open. He yanked it off and tossed it aside.
He held my bare calf, inspecting the wound.
“You only have one puncture wound,” he said.
“Well that’s good, cause it burns like a hog on a spit.” Sweat beaded my brow and, despite being on the ground, things swam in my vision. “I really don’t feel so good,” I said.
§
I woke in the wagon. The wind was still blowing and there was a smell of bacon. My head throbbed and my tongue felt three times normal size, and glued to my cheek.
“Here, sip this.”
Jeb held a glass to my lips. The water was cool and helped unstick my mouth.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Good to see you awake.”
“How long have I been out?”
“Three days.”
“How’s my leg.”
“Can you feel it?”
“Yeh. Feels like hell.”
“Then it’s doing fine. We cleaned it with fresh water every day and kept you cool while the fever ran.”
The effort of being awake became to much and I lay back and slept.
The next time I woke it was dark. The hum of voices came from outside. They stopped when I moved and the carriage creaked.
“You okay, Miss Jeannie?”
Hearing Gordon made me smile. “I’m good, Gordon. A little hungry.”
As I climbed out of the carriage the three men were there with a plate of bacon and beans. I smiled. It was almost like being back on Delaware Avenue with everyone at my beck-and-call, jumping to my demands.
“Well, look at my fine boys,” I said. I couldn’t resist.
Gordon grinned, he’d heard it all before. Jeb and Soames weren’t so sure. I lowered my voice and tilted my head forward. “Thanks for the food.”
“You’re feeling better?” Soames asked.
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Good. We need to get back on the trail. Winter comes closer with every day spent on the plains. Without proper cover we’ll like as not survive.”
“Sure. We’ll get going in the morning. I smiled at him. He turned and walked back to the fire. “Is he okay?” I asked.
Even in the dark Jeb’s eyes were brooding, like he was considering something serious. “He’s okay. Just wants to get back underway.” Jeb stared at me and it felt like he could see inside me. I’ve had it happen before. There are people whose perception is hyper-normal and it’s uncomfortable to meet them. But not with Jeb. It felt like he saw my soul, and I wanted him in there. That was unusual, disconcerting.
“Sorry for the delay,” I said. The words came unbidden.
Jeb shook his head. “Not your fault, accidents happen.” He turned away as well. He took a few steps and stopped. The breeze whistled the grass and we were close enough to the river that I could still hear it. He turned back. “Glad you’re better, Miss Jeannie.”
My heart beat jumped a little. His voice was like burnt caramel. It was cloying in a sweet and alluring way. Each syllable made me flinch a little but I wanted more, I wanted to listen as he spoke to me.
He nodded again, and turned away. I watched him. The uniform trousers were moulded to his hips, which were tight, not an ounce of waste. Further up his shoulders were wide, defined from weeks of wrestling the controls in the war-walkers. I was glad it was dark. Looking at him like this left me as good as naked.
“I’ll take your plate, Miss Jeannie,” Gordon said. “You should rest up.”
In the light of the moon his face was almost passive. But I could see the shine in his eyes. It was the look he gave me back in Washington when I claimed the soldier meant nothing to me, or the sailor was a mark, or the senator’s wife was a dalliance. I said nothing, and retreated inside the wagon.
The next morning we were under way again. While I had ridden out the snake’s venom they had scouted out where the nearest crossing was. We carried on across the prairie, a field of grass vaster than imagination. The only thing bigger was the buffalo. They stretched across the horizon like a moving carpet.
We tried to move through them, thought that they would move around us, especially with the walkers. They didn’t.
We’d waited four days for me to recover from the snake-bite. We waited another day while buffalo blocked the route. The herd was enormous, stretching from horizon to horizon.
Gordon and Soames were in the walkers and roved up and down the line set by the herd, seeking a way through, or a grove of trees, or a river. Anything.
Jeb came and sat beside me. We talked. It was hard to talk about nothing, while revealing our deepest selves. I learnt about the small Iowa town he grew up in, and how attached he was to his Scottish grandmother. He learnt about me being an escaped slaved, but I skirted round the job I’d done for the past ten years. Jeb had seen the horror of war up front and personal, but there was still an innocence about him when it came to me and, I guessed, dealing with women. I didn’t want to scare him away, not the way he was making me feel.
“I have a confession to make,” he said.
“What?”
“I took one of your feathers, and I burnt it with the skin of the snake. I figured if gramma kept them to prevent evil spirits, and you burnt them for a blessing, then maybe it’d help in some way.”
He stopped talking and gave an embarrassed, apologetic shrug. I took his hand, and held it between mine. “Thank you.” He nodded.
The power of his actions were immense. Unbidden he performed the most direct and effective vodou rite that could have been done. That I was well could be down to the close care I had received, or it could be the Loa blessing Jeb’s efforts. Was he a white man with vodou in his bones? A natural bent to how the spirit world interacts with ours? Or maybe he was just lucky. I looked at his firm jawline, at the gray eyes which were sunk back in tired sockets. The desire to kiss him rose unbidden and I began to lean over.
Looking past me, Jeb lifted his arm and pointed. “Soames and Gordon are back.”
Story by stuartcturnbull, art by Darkmoon_Art on Pixabay