Horrible Harvest

With Captain Docherty fixed on getting Mr. Miller’s advance man to Chattanooga, I followed the rutted path to the other end of the encampment. Along the way, I spotted a holster and Navy Colt revolver hanging from a set of stacked arms outside a tent. I commandeered the holstered weapon and threw it over my shoulder.

I passed fellas sitting in circles around fires, drinking corn liquor, sherry and other libations confiscated as contraband from the homes they’d raided in the area. Just inside the openings of tents, I seen other treasures from the brigade’s habituated practice of plundering, collected in piles. Silver cutlery, brass fixtures, jewelry, stolen objects of all sorts, and values littered the floors of nearly every tent I come across.

I rounded a bend in the trail just before it snaked into a thicket of trees and come to stop. Just ahead, I seen a white woman on the ground, cradling a girl ten-years of age or so just off the path. Their clothing was torn and stained, and I’d come to know when I got closer up on them that they reeked of piss and whisky.

I stepped towards them. Slow. Like I was walking up on a critter known for biting. When the woman seen me approaching, she shrieked like she’d lost her mind and pleaded with me to leave her alone.

I slowed my pace even more, and raised my arms in the air to show that I didn’t hold no weapons. “I ain’t here to do you no harm, ma’am. I’m just passing through.”

“Lies. Go away. We can’t take anymore.”

“I promise – ” I stopped when I seen a deep cut underneath the girl’s right eye. “What happened there?”