And besides-"Now I know what niggers must have felt like, running away from their masters with the hounds after them," Reggie said.
"Hadn't thought of that." Briggs paused for a moment to take off his hat and fan himself with it. He set the straw back on his head. His expression darkened. "I'd like to set the dogs on some niggers, too, the way they rose up against us. They ought to pay for that."
"Way they lorded it over us in camp, too," Reggie said, full of remembered anger at the insults he'd endured.
"Damnyankees set that up," Briggs said. "Wanted to turn us and them against each other." Reggie nodded; he'd seen the same thing himself. The Navy man went on, "I will say it did a better job than I ever thought it would. Those niggers had no loyalty to their country at all."
He would have said more, but a bend in the road brought a town into sight up ahead. "That'll be-Shady Spring?" Reggie asked doubtfully.
"That's right." Ralph Briggs sounded altogether sure of himself. It was as if he had a map of West Virginia stored inside his head. Every so often, when he needed to, he'd pull it down, take a look, and then roll it up again. Reggie wondered how and why he'd acquired that ability, which didn't seem a very useful one for a Navy man to have.
Whatever the name of the town was, though, they had to avoid it. They had to avoid people and towns as much as they could. U.S. forces paid a bounty on escaped prisoners the locals captured. Even had that not been so, West Virginians weren't to be trusted. When Virginia seceded from the USA, they'd seceded from Virginia, and made that secession stick. They had no love for the Confederate States of America.
The hillsides surrounding Shady Spring weren't too steep. Forests of oaks and poplars clothed them. So Ralph Briggs said, at any rate; Bartlett, who'd lived all his life in Richmond, couldn't have told one tree from another to escape the firing squad.
When he and Briggs came to a rill, they stopped and drank and washed their faces and hands, then splashed along in the water for a couple of hundred yards before returning to dry land. "No point making the dogs' lives any easier, in case they are on our trail," Reggie remarked.
"You're right about that," Briggs said, although hiking through the water soaked his feet and did his shoes more harm than it did to Bartlett's taller boots.
Here and there in the woods, sometimes by themselves, sometimes in small clusters, sometimes in whole groves, dead or dying trees stood bare-branched, as if in winter, under the warm spring sun. Reggie pointed. "What's wrong with them?" he asked, having developed considerable respect for how much Bartlett knew.
And the Navy man did not disappoint him. "Chestnut blight," he answered. "Started in New York City ten, maybe twelve years ago. Been spreading ever since. Way things are going, won't be a chestnut tree left in the USA or the CSA in a few years' time. Damnyankees let all sort of foreign things into their country." He spat in disgust.
"Chestnut blight," Reggie echoed. Now that Briggs mentioned it, he remembered reading something about it in the newspapers a couple of years before. "So these are chestnuts?" He wouldn't have known it unless Briggs had told him.
"These were chestnuts," Briggs corrected him now. "The Yankees got the blight, and now they're giving it to us." He scowled. "Chestnuts, the war-what's the difference?"
Reggie's stomach rumbled. It had been doing that right along, but this was a growl a bear would have been proud to claim. Reggie went through his trouser pockets. He came up with half a square of hardtack: the last of the painfully saved food he'd brought out of camp. Even more painful was breaking the fragment in two and offering Briggs a piece.
"We don't get our hand on some more grub, we're not going to make it out of West Virginia whether the damnyankees catch up with us or not," Reggie said.
"You're right." Briggs sounded as if he hated to admit it. "We're going to have to kill something or steal something, one or the other."
They tramped on through the woods. Bartlett's nostrils twitched. "That's smoke," he said. At first, he thought it came from Shady Spring, but they'd gone west to skirt the town, and the breeze was blowing into their faces, not from their backs. "That's a farm up ahead somewhere," he added.
Briggs was thinking along with him. "Lots of chances to get food from a farm." He sniffed. "That's not just smoke, either. Smells like they're smoking meat-venison, or maybe ham. Hell, in these back woods, maybe even bear, for all I know."
Reggie knew nothing about bears. The thought of there being bears in these woods hadn't occurred to him till the Navy man mentioned it. He looked around, as if expecting to see black, shaggy shapes coming out from behind every tree. Then he sniffed again. Smelling meat after months on camp rations made him ready to fight every bear in the USA for a chance at some-or to eat one if the farmer had done the fighting for him. "Let's follow our noses," he said.
Carved out of the middle of the woods were some tiny fields full of corn and tobacco. A couple of children fed chickens near a barn. A woman bustled between that barn and the farmhouse. No man was visible. "He's probably in the Army," Briggs whispered as he and Bartlett stared hungrily from the edge of the forest at the hollow log mounted upright over smoldering hickory chips. From the top of the log issued the wonderful smell that had drawn them here.
"We'll wait till dark, till they've all gone to bed," Reggie said. "Then we grab it and get the hell out."
"Liable to be a dog," Briggs said. "Meat's liable not to be smoked all the way through, either."
"I don't see any dog. I don't hear any dog. Do you?" Bartlett asked, and Ralph Briggs shook his head. Reggie went on, "And I don't care about the meat, either. Hell, I don't care if it's raw. I'll eat it. Won't you?" When Briggs didn't answer, he presumed he'd won his point.
And the thievery went off better than he'd dared hope. A couple of kerosene lanterns glowed inside the farmhouse for half an hour or so after sundown, then went out. That left the night to the moon and the stars and the lightning bugs. Reggie and Briggs waited for an hour, then sauntered forward. No dog went crazy. No rifle poked out of a window. They stole the hollow log and carried it away with nobody inside the farmhouse any the wiser.
It proved to be pork in there, ribs and chops and all sorts of good things. "Don't eat too much," Briggs warned. "You'll make yourself sick, you were empty so long."
He was an officer, so Reggie didn't scream Shut up! at him. He ate till he was deliciously full, a feeling he hadn't known for a long time.
Carrying the smoked pork they couldn't finish, the two of them headed south again. They'd done a deal of traveling by night, when they could use the roads with less risk of being recognized for what they were. And every foot they gained was a foot their pursuers would have to make up in the morning.
Since the war started, the USA had punched a railroad south and east from Beckley through Shady Spring and Flat Rock to join the lines already going into eastern Virginia. "The damnyankees are throwing everything they've got into this war," Reggie said, pointing to the new bright rails gleaming in the moonlight close by the road.
"I know." Briggs' voice was bleak. "It worries me."
Half an hour later, a southbound train came by. Reggie and Briggs hid by the side of the road till it passed. To Bartlett's surprise, it had only a few passenger cars; behind them came a long stretch of flatcars carrying big shapes shrouded in canvas. Each flatcar also carried a couple of armed guards.
"They're singing something." Now Ralph Briggs sounded indignant, as if U.S. soldiers had no business enjoying themselves. "What in blazes are they singing?"