—Empty, he shouted.
The rain picked up and they all hurried unloading. Ellen carried Winnie under her shawl, and Burton led Maggie and Jeffy. Jimmie Limber and Billy walked fast across the weedy plot of lawn holding V’s hands.
Bristol and Ryland ran back and forth in the flashes of storm carrying food and bedding while Delrey settled the mules and horses under the trees. Then all three of them collected downed limbs and broke them up the best they could, stomping them into firewood.
Inside, V and Ellen sat with the children and arranged their nest of quilts in front of the cold hearth. The house was all chaos, gaumed up beyond belief. Everywhere scattered plunder, broken things. A wide drag-trail parted the clutter. All denominations of Georgia bills littered the floor, and Burton drew the worthless paper together to strike a fire. A few thousand dollars did the job. Twigs and spindles from dining chairs served as kindling.
Black windows flashed white, projecting images of pecan limbs like etchings against the glass, and then went black again. The fire caught and the chimney drew. Burton closed the curtains to keep firelight from showing down at the road.
The navy boys took candles and went exploring the back of the house, and returned shortly with a crock of strawberry jam and another of dark-colored honey, almost coffee black.
Ryland said, There’s a case of wine sitting back there if anybody would care for some.
—Yes, please, V said.
She began digging around in her reticule, down past her pretty pistol, and came up with a corkscrew. Ryland set the case of Chablis down beside her, and she opened a bottle.
—Did you notice wineglasses? she said.
—Be right back, Ryland said. He and Bristol returned with Bristol carrying the candle and Ryland holding six stems upside down between spread fingers, and the bowls chimed against each other as he walked.
Burton and Delrey stood on either side of the fire. Delrey’s clothes hung dark and nearly soaked on his frame, and as the fire heated up, he started steaming. Rain fell hard and drops sizzled in the hearth where they found a way down the chimney throat.
NO MILK FOR THE CHILDREN and everybody too weary for much cooking, V said, A good night for bacon and warmed-up biscuits.
Delrey said, Good Lord, a few more days like this and we’ll be shoveling for terrapin eggs along the creek banks.
V said, Delrey, I count on you for optimism.
—Scrambled terrapin eggs—mighty good eating. Tastes like duck eggs but with a lot more tang.
—Thank you for the effort, V said.
Ellen fried two skillets of thick-cut bacon and then fried the old dry biscuits in the grease for a minute to freshen them up.
A sound carried from the second floor—a squeak of floorboards, a bump. Then silence.
Burton said, No worries. Just a possum or a bird that’s gotten in and can’t get out. But the boys and I’ll go check. If you hear anything more than just the three of us walking around, get out and go to the wagon. We’ve left the teams fed and in the traces and ready to roll if there’s trouble.
Burton and Bristol and Ryland went upstairs, searching for the source of the noise, and Delrey waited near the fire with his shotgun ready. Hardly sooner than they got up the steps, V heard many feet thumping on floorboards, raised voices, the sounds of things falling. Ellen and Delrey grabbed the younger children under their arms and V yanked Maggie by the hand. They fumbled out of the house and into the rain. Winnie cried, and then most of the other children started crying.
Before they reached the wagon, though, Burton came onto the gallery carrying an oil lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. He said, Ease up. Safe to come back, I think.
Inside, a huddle of people crowded around the fire, remnants of two or three families formerly enslaved. A grown man and three grown women and some exhausted and frightened children and two crying babies. And also a greasy blond boy about sixteen.
Ryland held out a stubby pistol for V’s inspection. It rested in his palm hardly weightier than her little suicide shooter.
Ryland said, Not even any live loads in it. I pulled it off that one.
He nodded toward the white boy, who grew less beard than the fuzz on a mullein leaf. Yellow strands of sticky-looking hair drooped across his forehead in front and hung limp to his shoulders in back. Everything about him glowed pallid and shiny. He wore what had once been a fine suit, now fraying at the collar and sleeves and cuffs, its carefully tailored structure wrinkled and broken down and bagged until it rode him like a spirit from the past.
V looked to the women and said, Are your people all right?
The white boy said, Address your questions to me.
Ryland looked around at Bristol and said, Good Lord, that little one features himself the leader.
V said, Ryland, step back, please.
The greasy boy lifted his two forefingers and abruptly hooked his hair behind his ears, as if he considered that a gesture of authority or at least defiance.
V looked him straight in the eye, and he glared back about two seconds and then looked down.
She said, Son, we’re short on supplies, but would you like a biscuit with a little piece of bacon? Or a biscuit with some of your honey or
