“I’m thinking your husband laying close by, missy,” the captain said. “He wily and he won’t leave his woman. I’m thinking he come right to us.”
“You should run while you still can,” I said.
For answer the captain examined his pistol, turning it over in his hands. It was my husband’s, and he used it just as my husband did, as an aid to thought. I looked at Sarah, who stood with her back to the sideboard as if she expected to be called upon to serve coffee. There was a shout outside. The man with the sword rushed across the porch and plunged into the azaleas.
“That be him now,” the captain said.
There were more shouts, the sound of scuffling; a man backed into the porch, crouched down, then lurched forward, falling headlong across the bricks. “I got ’im,” a voice cried, and another man laughed. “What is it?” the same voice said. The captain got up and went to the doors as the guard came in holding out before him the naked, filthy, squirming, screaming body of Walter. “Be careful now,” the guard said. “He bite.”
“Turn him loose,” the captain ordered. As soon as his feet hit the ground, the boy tried to dive back outside, but he was redirected by a kick from the guard and took off around the dining table.
“Is this one yours, missy?” the captain asked me.
“He a little yellow monkey,” the wounded man said.
Walter had spotted the ham and was trying to pull himself onto the table. The captain approached him, broke off a piece of bread from the loaf, and offered it to the creature, who shook his head vehemently, emitting a high-pitched whine and stretching out his arms to the ham.
“He don’t want no bread,” the wounded man observed.
“What his name?” the captain said to me.
“Walter,” I said.
“Tell him to stop that noise,” he said. I shrugged.
“He don’t hear,” Sarah said.
The captain regarded her closely, drew the obvious conclusion, and laughed. “Miss High Yellow got herself a little redheaded monkey,” he said. He raised the butt of the pistol and brought it down with a sharp crack across the side of Walter’s head. The child crumpled to the carpet, kicked his legs up, moaned once, then lay still.
No one spoke. I realized that my palms were damp, my mouth strangely dry. I glanced at Sarah, who had laid her hand across her mouth and closed her eyes, and then at the wounded man. His attendant had finished the bandaging. The captain went to him and petted his head. “How bad is it?” he said. The man looked up into his face with a bemused smile, raised his arm a few inches, and winced. “Not too bad,” he said.
“Where is this devil done clipped my Crow?” the captain asked, strutting away to join the two at the doors. Walter moved his arm, opened his eyes, but made no sound. So he wasn’t dead.
The captain stood between his men, gazing out into the night. He was a trim, bandy-legged man with a big head, two shades darker and half a foot shorter than his companions. He was running straight to the gallows and he knew it. All I could hope was that I might live to see that day.
We could hear the unmistakable sound of a horse’s hooves coming across the grass, fast, at a gallop. “Damn,” the captain said and ran onto the porch, waving his pistol. One of the men followed; the other turned on us, jabbing his knife menacingly. “Get yourselves together there,” he said, pointing to the table. Sarah and I did as he directed and stood with our backs to the table, not daring to look at each other. We heard a shot alongside the house. The man who had been guarding the front door ran past the casements.
The horse was getting very close; in the next moment I expected to see it come crashing into the room. I felt a pull at my skirt and looked down at Walter. His mouth was opening and closing and a stream of drool poured onto the carpet.
A torch went up outside, and I saw the horse hurtling toward the house, its big head lifted, fighting the bit. Just as it was about to collide with the porch columns, it veered, pitching into the azaleas. It was my husband’s bay gelding, rider-less, the reins tangled in the saddle. Quickly it recovered its footing, backed out of the bushes, and stood trembling on the drive. The torch came behind it.
Every one of us in that room stood transfixed, trying to make out the exact positions of the two men walking in the torchlight. One was the captain, his chest thrust out, his hands resting on his hips. The other, walking with an odd, shambling gait, holding the torch high in one hand, and in the other a pistol pointed steadily at the head of his captive, was my husband.
THEY PASSED THE horse, which ambled away into the darkness, and came across the drive to the house. As they entered the room, my husband thrust the torch at the remaining guard, who backed away nervously. The men were all riveted by the pistol, but I was fascinated by the change in my husband. He was smeared from head to toe with mud and blood. His neck was gashed and blood had poured down his chest, soaking his shirt, which was torn nearly to shreds. His hair was wild, standing out on one side, packed flat with mud on the other. His eyes burned with excitement. He jabbed the pistol at his captive’s temple and said, “Now just don’t move.” The wounded man sat forward in his chair and said, “Oh, Lord.”