In the end, he couldn’t wait for the strategic advantage of remaining downstairs to unfold. His blood decided him, drove him on. His fate had begun at last, it was on his lips like salt. He needed to get upstairs before the overseer started down. The rock was cold in his palm, rough like grizzled skin. He took the stairs at a sprint, his feet barely touching the wood.
The blow fell before he’d even stopped running. It glanced off his skull and sent him sideways into the wall at the top of the case. On his hands and knees, facing the floor, he struggled to stay conscious as a lantern light puddled around him.
“You’ll find nothing here, soldier,” Orlett said. “Better forage among your dead comrades.”
A breech clicked.
“You’re lucky I don’t kill you and drag you out there with them. No one would know the difference.”
He laughed.
“Didn’t expect a dog, did you? Thought you’d slip in and take the fine silver? Get up!”
He could feel the overseer’s shadow heavy on his back. His vision blurred, came clear again. Then his hand closed around the rock’s cold. Slowly he began to rise, Orlett’s rank smell in his nostrils. He’d be grinning, almost panting, his rotten breath, the shine of grease… John threw the stone and rolled to one side as the gunshot blasted into the ceiling. Orlett had reeled back, dazed, and kicked over the lantern. In a flare of pale light John saw the blood on the overseer’s forehead before the blood and the man vanished. The shot echoed in the dark. Bits of plaster and dust floated whitely down. John leapt forward, his hands already closing in a tight circle. The dog howled below, scratched frantically at the door. John struck nothing. There was a flurry to one side. He ducked as the overseer’s gun swung toward him. But he did not avoid the kick. It hit him hard in the stomach. He collapsed to his knees, bent over, gasping. Then his head was yanked up by the hair and the overseer’s fist struck him only a glancing blow as he found a burst of strength to pull away. At the same time he reached out and grabbed the overseer’s leg and jerked him off balance. In seconds John was on top of him, his knees pressing into his chest, his hands on his throat. But he did not close them tight. It was too soon. Orlett didn’t even know who he was; he thought he was only a soldier out foraging. John struggled to control himself. He kept a firm pressure on the overseer and said, “I’m not a soldier.”
The overseer’s eyes swept across him. Suddenly his body relaxed. He grinned. His lips pulled back from the rotted teeth.
“Welcome home, bright boy. You’ve grown since I saw you last. What did you do to your cheek?”
He laughed hoarsely, and John had to increase the pressure to stop the sound.
Orlett gasped. “Go on. What you waiting for?”
He squeezed harder. Now he heard only the dog’s howls and his own quick breaths. It was what he had wanted, it was everything, he needed only to shut out Caleb’s voice, but you’re not a killer, John, dat ain’t your way, he needed only to bring his hands as close together as possible, to cuff them to the overseer’s throbbing blood. Why couldn’t he do it? He had to; there wasn’t a choice. So why couldn’t he squeeze harder? Why had his grip weakened?
Orlett said in a rasp, “Goddamn ignorant not even a nigger you’re not even…”
“What?” John eased the pressure a little.
The overseer’s lip curled. “Sold by your white trash… not even a nigger…”
“What?”
“You heard. He told me. Bought you in Baltimore. Poor white trash. But I made you a slave. More of a slave than any nigger. You think you’d know.”
He wheezed laughter between his rotten teeth. “You’d think a body could just tell something like that.”
John’s grip loosened. “You’re lying!”
“Not an ounce of nigger blood in you, bright boy. But maybe there’s some just born to be niggers anyway.”
John lifted one hand to his cheek. Caleb and Daney would have said if they had known. And they would have known. It couldn’t be true. Orlett would say anything to…
Then it was too late. The overseer bucked him off and rolled clear. When John recovered, he found the shotgun pointed at him, the doglike grin wider than ever. In the splay of light the blood shone in streaks on the overseer’s face. His foul breath came rapidly. He swayed. There was a lot of blood.
“You missed your one chance, bright boy. Goddamn ignorant, white or black. For some it don’t matter, I reckon.” He placed his arm against the wall for support but kept the gun fixed straight ahead.
John saw the motion at the same instant he heard the screams. It was a sound unlike anything he’d ever heard, closer to the shriek of a wildcat than anything human. The overseer shrank under it, the gun knocked clear. It clattered down the first few stairs. John did not spring for it. He was frozen at the sight of the two women’s wild faces as they tore at the overseer’s body. In seconds they had him on the ground, and seconds later they had his breeches down. Something dull-bright flashed in one of the women’s hands. Orlett’s screams were terrible.
John leapt forward. This was not how it was supposed to happen. This was not his revenge. It took all of his remaining strength to pull just one of the women clear. She scratched and flailed at him but stopped once the other woman, with a savage cry of triumph, raised a chunk of bloody flesh in her hand and ran down the hallway, her screams a kind of cadenced singing that descended to a moaning as she vanished from the lamp glow, the other woman running behind.
Screaming, his face dissolved with blood, Orlett suddenly called out, “Cray! Cray! Help me! Cray! Where are you?”
John should have watched without pity, with a pleasing sense that the overseer had received what he had deserved for so long. But he was not pleased, he was sickened. It had all happened so fast, like a whirlwind from those bible stories Motes had liked to tell. There was something unworldly about the women’s revenge, something final that seemed to involve more than just the overseer. John found he could not remain near the place where the attack had occurred. Bile rising in his throat, he followed the overseer down the stairs and outside, watched him stagger into the barn. A moment later, the white charger galloped out, Orlett slumped in the saddle, arms wrapped around the horse’s neck, the reins flailing over his shoulders. The sky was beginning to lighten. As the charger passed him, the boy saw that its flank was drenched in black blood. Orlett’s weak cries for the mulatto hung in the festering air. John dropped to his knees, put his hands over his eyes. Not even a nigger… Poor white trash… But you’re not a killer, John… Goddamn ignorant… Dat ain’t your way… Not a nigger but a slave…
He raised his face to the fading stars, the dead air cool on his cheek. It was the second day after the great battle and he did not even know who had won. But he knew where he’d felt the most victorious, he knew where there would be sanctuary for him, if there could ever be. But not yet.
Dazed, he went back to the house. He had no energy left, his body weakened with every step. He needed just a little sleep. And then he’d find his way back to the hospital and the doctor with Caleb’s eyes.
He did not sleep long, perhaps an hour. At a sudden eruption from downstairs, he woke with a start and immediately crept to the head of the stairs. The dog was not barking in the shut parlour. Perhaps the mulatto had returned? John started down. All at once voices broke over the stillness.
“In here. Set the tables up. And for Christ’s sakes drag that dog’s carcass out. We don’t need to attract any extra flies.”