The Blood of Heaven (18 page)

Two hundred and twenty-five, said Reuben. The glee in his voice as he leaned his bulk further across the table seemed without reason and worried me.

The Reverend Morrel put up his hands together to show that they were tied by circumstance.

Well, my friend, said Reuben. How about if I told you I wanted them both, and you were to pay me what they’ve earned.

Morrel stiffened and his voice grew soft. I’d say you were a fool, he said.

Reuben clapped his leg. Maybe I am, Reverend. Maybe I am. The kind of fool who hears in Natchez that his little brother’s fallen in with the likes of you and comes all this way into the country to find him. But I’m also the kind of fool who knows Lieutenant Wilson of the Army of the United States, who’s presently marching troops down from Fort Adams and gathering up militia to raid your camp.

You’re lying, said the Reverend.

I’m afraid Reuben’s being true, said Clark. When I lent you my land I didn’t know your history.

Like hell you didn’t, said the Reverend. You believe you can frighten me with untruths!

We know an awful lot of truths, Reuben continued. Like that you’ve got one pistol in your pocket and a skinny knife in your boot. And maybe five or six men with shotguns roaming. And we know if you accost any of us three, you’ll have every Mississippi man here and the whole damn territory on your ass worse than it already is. And I know you’ve done your share of murders so you may just get one or two, but hear this—my apologies, gentlemen—but you’d better pray you get me good, because even dead my hands’ll be locked around your bedizened neck, and they won’t let go until you’re cold.

The Reverend Morrel was no longer the shining star but gray-faced, cowed eyes searching in the revels below for his men to call, finding nothing but music and the tumult of games.

So, said Reuben, Do you have any cash on hand?

No, said the Reverend.

Back at your camp, then?

Yes, said the Reverend, regaining his comportment some. If you’ll come—

Pardon me if I don’t go with you alone to some secret place where there could be an ambush laid. How about the six of us go. That way I’ll feel better about the odds.

The Reverend stood up, stoop-shouldered, and the others rose as well. Still on the stage and before the face of Satan, Reuben unbuttoned his coat and revealed his bandolier of three pistols. He extended his arm as to direct the Reverend’s progress. I was in blasted awe of him. Truly this was the brother foretold. Samuel said as much, needling me with his elbows as we followed the Reverend back to camp, where we passed through the still-gamboling Blessed, Johnny Crabbe giving looks to our procession, and then Morrel went off with Reuben, Clark, and Randolph to his tent while we gathered up our things in a daze of hurried movement and readied our horses. I was lashing my pack to the saddle when Crabbe appeared again, asking, Where’re y’all going and who’s that with the Reverend?

Crabbe, I said. You’d better haul your ass on out of here. There’s an army coming for Morrel.

And you’re leaving?

Damn right we’re leaving, said Samuel, stepping with his things out the back of our tent. What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you! He’s the best God-damned brother and hardest man in the son of a bitching country.

Who? said Crabbe.

I spoke the name of the man who was not yet my brother, praying a little then that it could one day be so. I listened hard for shots or shouts above the music and singing as we made the final lashes to our horses, but the Reverend returned with the other three and he sidled close to me as we made our way back to the stage.

He whispered, I’m damning you, you deceiver. Here and now.

Go ahead, I said. I already am.

Not so bad as this, hissed Morrel. You’ll know my mark all the days of your short life.

Hey, now! called Reuben from up ahead. No cross words. You’ve got a fair bargain, Reverend.

Morrel was silent the rest of the way, occasionally giving me the eye, or tapping a now-jewelless finger to his temple when he saw me looking. Reuben wouldn’t let the Reverend leave until we were in the saddle.

The army will be here tomorrow night, said Reuben. So I’d say leave by morning.

The Reverend raised his head up haughty and said, I will do as I damn well please and the good Lord dictates.

Well, said Reuben with a flick of his reins, you can’t ask more than that of a man.

We were a ways off and going at a good gallop when Reuben Kemper reached into his coat pocket and took out the Reverend’s silver-plated pistol and tossed it back over his head. I turned to watch it fall and saw Morrel as a small figure back-lit by fire.

We made the road and split, with Clark and Randolph, pistols out for fear of traps, riding east towards Pinckneyville and us heading west to Tunica Bayou, where Reuben had his barge. Before the pair left he thanked them and they both laughed, Clark saying that he always knew whenever he came upcountry there’d be some sort of fun, Randolph that there were ways out of any business, no matter how rotten. Reuben roared more thanks and gave a blessing on their souls that there were such good friends in the world.

A few miles below the mouth of the Tunica, Reuben held us up at a tree-walled bend and we slowed and went to the side of the road.

I asked why we were stopping, but he only held his hand up and I was answered by the rattle and march of soldiers and militia as they rounded. They were about fifteen, some on foot and some a-horse, and at their middle rode a man I judged to be the lieutenant. He wore the highest hat and the brocades of his dark blue uniform shone for an instant in the moonlight when he hallooed Reuben and broke ranks to ride over.

Reuben, admiring the troops, said he thought it was ten or so more miles to the encampment.

Should I expect much violence?

Well, said Reuben. I may’ve whipped his froth a bit.

Lieutenant Wilson clipped a quick smile. We have been eager for some . . . experience lately.

Then get yourselves down to the line, said Reuben, and drive out the damned Pukes.

Both men laughed and the lieutenant said, Still troubled, eh?

You know how it goes with me.

That’s why none should ever leave the bosom of the United States. The lieutenant sighed and looked to his winded but antsy troops. But I’m afraid we’ll have to talk more another day. Then he bid farewell to Reuben and cocked his hat to me and Samuel and rode off, harrying the men to their feet.

A River Ceremony

When the ground grew soft our horses were so blown that we had to get down and walk them the last two miles. Samuel followed his brother without question and I followed them into the swampy outskirts of the Tunica. There was little moonlight, but Reuben made his way in the dark, fixed on a pinpoint of light so tiny that I couldn’t see it until we’d come almost to the upper landing, where his slave sat beside a lantern tied to a pole driven in the ground and below lay the barge. Reuben said this was the Cotton-Picker and I thought he meant the nigger, but he left his horse beside him and passed without a word and went instead to inspecting the riggings and keel, calling, Ferdinand, let’s have her off!

So the black untied the lantern and with one hand pulled the pole from the ground, put the lantern-handle in the mouth of Reuben’s horse, and led it onto the barge. Once we’d loaded ours and the horses wobbled uneasy on the boards, Reuben had us both get off and shove while he pushed with the pole until the Cotton-Picker broke free of the shore, drew water, and was floating down the bayou. The water was almost to my neck before I could make the boards of the turning barge, wary of the hooves being kicked at me as I tried to clamber aboard. Samuel and his brother’s slave had already made it up, only half-soaked, and my brother stuck his hand out and I was brought dripping onboard to the laughter of Reuben.

The lantern was now at the fore and lit the forms of animals in the trees we passed beneath and the green scum at their bases which broke with our wake. This was easy water before we’d have to pole against the current when the bayou met the river, and so we spent the time resting, laid out on the deck while Ferdinand worked us round the cuts and bends. On occasion one of us would kick horseshit overboard. I was soaking my shape into the woodgrain when Reuben sat up and said, Don’t just lay there and shiver—get bare.

I did and soon was stark in the chill just before morning, and sat back down, thinking I’d rest and gather myself a bit longer, but Reuben was up and had Samuel before him and they lit pipes and talked over his reasoning me being a brother of theirs. I wrung out my clothes and their talk wore on a while with Samuel telling more in detail our travels and sufferings and gains, never, of course telling the truth of what had happened in Chit: we had, he said, been banished for fooling with the girls. Even as lies I hated to hear it all again, for my brother couldn’t falsify it right—the way I did when I preached. Rather than give my own version, I made my case to Reuben.

I know I’m not worth much, I said, but all I have I owe to my brother, and I am grateful for all that he has given me. And now I owe another brother, and pray he’ll take me on, for I’ve had no family but a madman, no company but pale things in caves in Kentucky and the beasts of the field all my sorry youth until I found the Kempers.

The brothers both were moved; even Reuben’s stony aspect had cracked a bit with my account of things. Samuel stayed silent and Reuben made a few circles, puffing smoke. When we came to a straight run of the bayou, I was fishing in what I dazedly thought was my saddle-pack for shirt and pants, but found it was neither mine nor Samuel’s but Reuben’s. I knew this because of what I felt with my fingertips beneath the crumpled clothing and kit—the pocked surface of cork, then glass—stepping back to notice how the leather bulged in the shape of a small jar and was worn along its outlines, as though the jar had been kept there for some time. Reuben, passing by, said, Don’t bother dressing yet. If you want to be a Kemper then we’ll baptize you as one right here and now. Will you have it like that?

I said I would and followed him to the side of the barge, where both brothers took me by the arms and held me out over the water.

May the good Lord bless and keep this brother and bind him to us, said Reuben.

For good or ill, said Samuel.

Then they dropped me in and I was held beneath the water until I thought I’d drown, struggling against their hands, my head thrashed back against the gunnels. I’d kept my eyes jammed shut, thinking this was how Emily had felt in her last awful moments of life, but as the water overtook me I was becalmed and opened them to find the bayou-life illuminated by a heavenly light. The catfish and gar regarded me with glowing eyes, and the alligators brushed me with their scales; crabs and crawfish nipped and fingerling shrimp bristled my face with their legs. And I knew at that moment I was baptized by God not only into brotherhood but into this country as well. They hauled me gasping from the water, Ferdinand singing a hymn as he poled, and when I told them what I’d seen my brothers both agreed it was a good vision.

Reuben slung the water and scum from his arm, saying, What a damnation of a day. Ride thirty miles to face a wicked man, bring back my brother and a new one in tow. And with all that I’m to be married when we make Natchez. That’s how I heard it, you know. My sweet Aliza told me who you’d fallen in with. And in a day’s time I’ll be joined to her. Christ Almighty life’s a joy!

I dried again and dressed, finding my own saddle-pack this time, but not forgetting, even in the elation of brotherhood, Reuben’s horrible bride-price. And like a fool, caught up in being brother to those two, I asked him if the stories were true.

Samuel looked as though he’d strangle me; but Reuben only smiled broad and called to his black, You hear that, Ferdie? The legend’s spread!

Ferdinand sang back a song about a Caribbean king who had a hundred of the blackest wives and murdered and ate them all, then rolled in their heaped heads. And it may be that in the July night, amid the screech of owls and the chittering of coons and possums in the trees, as the song of murder and infamy went on, I felt embraced, accepted into the arms of family as I’d never known, the cords of brotherhood binding together, and even then that knot was choking out the righteous purpose of my life, leaving room for foolish fealty, the dreams of others to which I’d attach myself for years, held there by the same unrelenting faith that made me such a fine servant of the Lord.

So, little brother, Reuben said when his slave had finished the last verse, don’t take too much stock in legends. They’re often embellished.

I told you, said Samuel.

Not to say there’s not some truths in them, he said to me. You’ve unburdened yourself enough to make me feel at ease. Besides, you know I’d crack your neck like an errant twig across my path if you betrayed me ever.

So you did cut some, I said.

For a woman who I’ll never share a bed with but for a few nights at a time, because she can’t abide the backcountry, or even traveling to New Orleans. For a woman so terrible and beautiful that I’d do anything to have her. What’s the skins of a few pricks to me when love’s on the line?

I thought it was lies, said Samuel.

Reuben said, It’s lies only in number. Aliza’s had her share of suitors, but none were willing to pay the price. You understand?