Free The Winter Family by Clifford Jackman Page A

“I’ll just shoot him now.”
    “No,” Tom said. “Let him alone. That’s an order.” And then, seeing Bill, who had crept out of the shadows: “You too. Come on.”
    Sevenkiller looked into Winter’s eyes. Pure hatred burned back at him. Sevenkiller felt briefly alarmed. But then he laughed and hummed “Hi-diddly-ho” and holstered his revolver and turned away.
    Bill walked past the two Union soldiers. Slowly. He too looked into Winter’s eyes. He too saw the hatred burning out of them and an electric sensation ran up and down his spine. The boy had not broken. How was that possible? Bill could feel the strength of will, the sense of purpose, radiating off him like heat. Who was this boy? How could he be only a lowly private? Wouldn’t that kind of strength carve its own path in the world? What could contain it? It was so diametrically opposed to Bill’s perception of his own character that he could not help but pause, fascinated, before he headed out of the barn.
    The door to the barn closed behind Bill. The only sound was Reggie weeping and Winter coughing up water and blood on the floor.

18
    The Confederates assembled in Captain Jackson’s parlor. Sevenkiller entered through the back door. Bill’s hands were tied again and he sat a little apart from the others.
    Tom told Stoga what Reggie had said, and after a pause, Stoga replied.
    “I don’t think it can be true. I don’t think they can go so far withouta cracker line. I don’t see how Sherman can leave his wagon trains exposed to raiders from Macon.”
    “He don’t need no goddamn wagon train,” Early said. “He’s going to eat up the goddamn country till he gets to the sea. Then he’s going to get his supplies over the water.”
    “Hrmm,” Stoga said. “But our men are in Macon and Augusta.”
    “That’s the point,” Tom said. “They don’t want to fight our soldiers. The Union forces are deliberately targeting our civilians. Do you understand?”
    “I don’t think so,” Stoga said. “I don’t think that can be happening.”
    Sevenkiller laughed. “Of course it can!” he said. “It happened before. Don’t you remember? It wasn’t so long ago.”
    “What are you babbling about?” Early said.
    “The Cherokee used to live here,” Sevenkiller said. “Not even thirty years ago. Their lands had been promised to them by the government, in treaty after treaty after treaty. But in 1838 they were sent west, to the Indian Territory, and four thousand of them died along the way. That’s how the good people who live here now got their land.”
    “That ain’t the same thing at all,” Early said. “We’re civilized people.”
    “Ah,” Sevenkiller said. “But so were they! They lived on farms and they had their own constitution and newspaper and a Bible in their own language and nice white-man names like John and Richard. And everything was stolen from them, except for a lucky few like my master.”
    “It ain’t the same thing!” Early shouted. “What would a goddamn nigger Indian like you know about it?”
    “Everything.” Sevenkiller giggled. “I would know all about it. Wouldn’t I?”
    “Enough,” Tom said. “This is happening, whether we like it or not. So we need to get the word to Milledgeville, and to Macon too. But first we have something to do.”
    Tom gestured to the map on the table.
    “If we can take out that bridge,” Tom said, “the whole UnionArmy will be stuck on the west bank of the Ocmulgee. They’ll be exposed to raiders from Macon and they’ll have to eat up their supplies. And it might just buy us enough time to move our army around.”
    “Hrmm,” Stoga said.
    “They’ve got no cracker line and no lines of communication to Washington,” Tom continued. “We can still make the state of Georgia their graveyard. Lieutenant Stoga, I know this is a lot to ask. You and your men have only been free a few days, and I know you want to get back home.”
    “We’ll help,” Stoga said.