The sound of the horse’s hooves tearing up the grass, the sight of her bent low over the animal’s neck, confounded me. Absurd questions distracted me from my own peril: Where had she learned to ride like that? What direction would she take? Was she going for help? Then the sound of human feet pounding the ground restored me to what was left of my senses. I knew only enough to run, to keep running. I heard the captain shout, the report of the pistol, which seemed not loud, far away, yet at the same time there was a searing, astounding pain in my shoulder, and I understod that I had been hit.
I kept running. There was no cover. I had no idea where I was, what direction to take. The house was somewhere behind me, overrun with murderers. If I could get to the quarter, surely someone would protect me. It was black, the ground riddled with roots that tripped me and nettle grass that cut my feet like razors. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my flimsy shoes. Gradually the ground seemed to decline beneath my feet, the grass thinned, and the earth became wet and cool. At last there were branches, bushes, places to hide. I could hear them still behind me, still in pursuit, so I pressed on, feeling my way by clutching at limbs and seeking the driest ground with my feet. My skirt caught on every bramble. I paused long enough to pull it up between my legs and knot it above my knees. Insects swarmed around my head; my hand closed on something sinuous and leathery. I recoiled, losing my balance, and sat down hard on a tree root. I could hear the men’s voices, not as close, but not far enough. Keep going, I told myself, and got to my feet. Something skittered across the ground; a bat whirred overhead. I took a few steps, holding my hands out before me. I was standing in a few inches of water. Wrong way, I thought, and changed direction, but the next steps only brought the icy water to my knees. Wrong way, I told myself again, turning once more. This time my feet found less water, more mud; mud to my shins. I slogged through it. My shoulder had turned into a throbbing mass; the pain made me groan with every step. Insects flew into my mouth and eyes, buzzing louder and louder until I couldn’t hear anything else. They will eat me alive, I thought.
I would die where I stood. Then miraculously a solution occurred to me, one I’d seen the negroes use, to my disgust. I bent down and plunged my hands into the cool mud, then smeared it over my face, my arms, and into my hair. Put it on thick, I told myself, squatting to get another handful. The buzzing subsided. I went on, feeling my way. I was out of the mud on soft ground, then my feet found a patch of cool ferns that felt like a carpet laid beneath my feet. I stopped, listened, heard a variety of noises, but none of them voices. They wouldn’t waste what little time they had left in this world to search the swamp for a wounded woman, I thought. A powerful lethargy swept over me. My legs were leaden; I could not lift my head. A little farther, I told myself. I could make out the trunk of a big oak just ahead, as wide around as a cabin. I staggered to it, stumbling in the maze of its roots, which sprawled out in every direction, making various moss-covered nests. I sat down in one of these, close to the trunk. It seemed a perfect resting spot. When I moved my arm, the pain made me cry out. My dress was stuck to my back from my shoulder to my waist. How much blood have I lost? I wondered. I heard a rushing sound overhead, a crack of branches in the brush nearby. I could not remember why I was in the forest at night. My head ached. I opened and closed my mouth. It felt as if my jaw was broken. I could see Sarah’s face, her lips pulled back over her teeth like a snarling dog as she struggled with me. “They will kill me,” I said, but she wasn’t listening, or didn’t hear. No, I thought. She heard me well enough. It was her hope that they would kill me.
“But I’m still alive,” I said with satisfaction. Then it seemed the darkness around me was as much behind my eyes as in front of them, and I gave up trying to see through it.
WHEN I OPENED my eyes again, I was looking at a black hand. The light was soft, pinkish, and there was a wheezing sound coming from somewhere behind me; it sounded like a torn bellows. I moved my fingers and understood that the hand was my own. The mud on my palm cracked open, revealing the pale flesh beneath. My mouth was as dry as the mud, my head a circlet of pain that emanated down, then out to my shoulder, where it became a fire. When I tried to sit up, nothing happened. I blinked, gazing up into the maze of limbs and leaves over my face. It must be just dawn, I thought. I tried turning onto my side, away from the burning shoulder. This time I was successful. I pulled myself up onto my good arm. I knew where I was, I remembered how I had gotten there. But what was this whistling at my back? Carefully I turned my head. I was reminded that my cheek was torn, my jaw in some new configuration that made it throb like an outraged heart. I looked down at a bruised and naked body curled in a hollow between two roots, its arms and legs drawn in close, the side of its head swollen, bloody, and bruised, its mouth open, snoring as peacefully as if the moss was a feather bed. It was Walter.