“Oh Lord,” says Little Earl.
Another one comes close to peer hard in their faces, a boy with light green eyes, cat eyes, and a lump in his cheek. He spits tobacco next to the body of the dog. “Our regiment been delegated to get you darkies in line,” he says. He nods at the leader. “Lester here was fast asleep and yall put him outta bed. He fit to kill, he is.”
“If you’ll deliver us to the provost tent, I’m sure they’ll—”
The leader, Lester, jerks the barrel of his Springfield up to crack Junior under the chin. “You open your mouth again, nig, I’ll knock them pearly whites out.” He points. “Yall prisoners now, you march where you’re told and shut the hell up. Now hop to it.”
Lester winks to the others and waves his rifle. They start to walk, one of the Georgia boys on each side and two behind, with the cat-eyed soldier leading the way.
“Just follow Jimbo,” says the leader, “and keep your hands where we can see em.”
They aren’t walking toward the camp. Lost as he is Royal can tell that much but can’t bring himself to raise the question. You raise the question you have to live with the answer. The pain behind his eye has dulled somewhat, the dizziness gone. He could bolt away before they’re clear of the houses, maybe outrun them. The ones behind have their rifles shouldered, strolling casually. He could bolt away but that would leave Junior and Little Earl to the volunteers with their blood up. They step out onto a foot trail through a tangle of palmettos and Jimbo begins to sing—
Oh Ireland has her harp and shamrock
England floats her lion bold—
He has a beautiful voice, a sweet tenor—
Even China has a dragon
Germany an eagle gold
Bonny Scotland loves a thistle
Turkey has her crescent moon—
He turns and walks backward, green eyes smirking, dropping to an exaggerated bass like a minstrel darky—
An what won’t de yankees do
Fo they red, white, an blue?
Every race got a flag but de coon!
Jimbo finishes, the Georgia boys sniggering, then turns and leads them deeper into the palmetto thicket. Royal sees tiny spots of orange dotting the horizon to the left, campfires on the Heights maybe a mile away.
“Where they taking us?” whispers Little Earl.
“Don’t know,” Royal whispers back, his knees going to water for an instant.
“Don’t say nothing.”
“You know any?” Jimbo turns again and backpedals slowly. “Any of the old-time songs?”
“Christ, Jimbo,” moans Lester. “Let’s just get this done.”
“They all of em can sing. Aint that right? Let’s hear something.”
Royal’s mind is only pain and sickness. He looks to Junior, who is walking stiffly, eyes fixed forward, as if being judged on his carriage.
“I know you,” says Little Earl.
Jimbo stops, brings his rifle up. They all have to stop not to walk over him.
“What’s that?”
“I seen you,” says Little Earl. “Tonight at the Moody revival. You was singing and I looked over and there you was, giving note for note with Mr. Sankey.”
Lester looks from Little Earl to his comrade. “That’s what you do with a pass?”
“It’s a hell of a show, Les,” says the cat-eyed soldier, shaking his head in wonder. “Ought to try it sometime.”
“I thought you was part of the choir, put out among the sinners, till I seen the uniform.” Little Earl has a terrible smile on his face. The other 2nd Georgias have surrounded him now, crowding close, watching Jimbo to see what they should do.
“Let’s hear it, then,” says Jimbo softly. “Hear how the niggers sing it.”
Little Earl, breathing hard, closes his eyes to remember the words. His voice is shaky at first—
There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Emmanuel’s veins
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains—
He gets his breathing in line with the melody and gains a little strength. Royal feels like he is watching it all from some high place, him and Junior waiting to be murdered and Little Earl singing and the white boys with their rifles gathered round and the palmettos taking detail as the sun teases the edge of the earth—
The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day
And there may I, though vile as he
Wash all my sins away—
Jimbo joins in then, singing counter to Little Earl’s steady declamation, bending the words here and there—
Then in a nobler, sweeter song
I’ll stay Thy pow’r to save
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave
Lies silent in the grave
Lies silent in the grave
When this poor lisping, stammering tongue
Lies silent in the grave
It is very quiet when they finish. No nightbugs anymore. A rooster announcing itself over in Ybor. Little Earl’s breath coming hard.
“Jesus,” says Lester to his friend, his look more confused than admiring. “You sound more like a nigger than he does.”
Jimbo grins as if it’s a compliment, cocks his head at the prisoners. “You boys carryin any money?”
Tampa wakes from a fever dream, damp and confused, hoping that none of it is true.
The Georgia boys look wounded when it is Sergeant Jacks they turn their prisoners over to. They peek past him into the provost tent and there are white men there, officers, and Lester steps in to speak with one of them. The lieutenant glances out and nods that it is okay.
Lester walks back past them, muttering, and joins the other Georgians at the coffee boiler.
“They took all our money,” says Junior when he is out of earshot.
Jacks yawns, leads them back toward the bivouac. “Won’t be needing it where you going.”
“But we’re stuck here.”
The sergeant shakes his head.
“Had a bunch of our fellows shot up in town last night,” he says without turning. “Sent em to Atlanta. We short in H Company so you three and Cooper are moving over. With me.”
Junior brightens. “That’s terrific! When do we go?”
“They’ll move us to the Port tomorrow, then I spect we’ll sit some more.” He falls back into step alongside them, looks at Royal’s boots.
“Who that blood is?”
“They kilt a dog.”
Jacks nods his head slowly, as if this explains it all. “Yeah,” he says, “you lucky niggers going to Cuba.”
CAMP ALVA
Hod looks up from the chow line at Camp Alva Adams and can see the flophouse he stayed in the night before he enlisted. The camp is laid out just across from the brickyards above Denver City Park, and it is raining, as it has been for weeks now, the volunteers drilling in the mud and eating under a patchwork canvas awning that sags with collected water and promises to collapse under the weight. Runt has been taking bets as to which unit will be soaked when the inevitable occurs. He and Hod and Big Ten and the other late recruits have been reassigned almost daily, landing just this morning with Company G, whose men are mostly from Cripple Creek.