Chapter Text
Virginia, 1862
Two boys ran through the tall tobacco plants, laughing gaily at having won freedom from the day's round of tasks. The tasks the boys each faced were quite different, for one of them was the son of the man who owned the land through which they ran and the other the son of one of that man's house-slaves. Set apart from each other by the accidents of birth and the colours of their skin, the boys yet were friends, overcoming the iniquities of the world in which they lived by simple virtue of being but nine years old and both fond of games of running and climbing. For a year and a half they had lived under the new Confederate government, and for a year this new government had been at war with the Union government under which they had previously lived. This, and the terrible days soon coming to their own circumscribed world, meant nothing to the two boys, giving them only a new game to play when their parents and their work could be evaded.
"Bang!" cried the land-owner's son, raising a stick in the manner of a rifle. "I shot you, you damn Yankee! Go back to Boston!"
"You missed!" cried the other, aiming his own stick. "Bang! I shot you, and you're the Yankee!"
Laughing, they ran on, imagining in their boyish minds that they were surrounded by foes from whom they must protect the land. They dodged between trees in a small wood that was to them a deep and mysterious forest, pretending to shoot all the while. Soon they reached a favourite spot, where a massive tree overhung a softly running creek, and climbed agilely upwards to squat comfortably among the branches like small arborial creatures. They eagerly pulled out the food they had begged and stolen from the kitchen, and ate hungrily before lying back and, under the influence of the food - so much sweeter to them for being illicitly gained and eaten in the limbs of a tree - and the heat of the day, gazed sleepily up at the patterns of light and shade effected by the sunlight striking the leaves.
"I don't see any gain in all the study Mamma wants me to be subjected to," the land-owner's son said. "It quite rots the brain, I am sure. Mr Wheen says all the arithmetic will be just what I need when I'm running the estate, but I think he's just afraid he'll lose his job if they see how useless all his teaching is."
The other boy nodded solemnly, for they had a terrible feud against the tutor, whose insistence on the proper preparation of work every day had on several occasions robbed them of the opportunity for amusement.
"I don't need all this arithmetic and reading, Micah!" the boy cried, full of outrage at the injustices of the world. "He makes me read poetry! Like I'm some kind of girl!"
"It don't seem fair," said Micah, that being the other boy's name. He grinned up at the sunlit leaves. "'Course, maybe he's seen you wearing your Mamma's dresses, and that's why you get all that poetry."
"Why, you!"
Leaves and twigs were flung at each other, but the day was warm and they were still somewhat sleepy, and soon they reclined against the branches once more, giggling.
"Micah? Do you think the war will go on till I'm old enough to fight in it? Will you come with me and be my servant?"
Micah shrugged. "Sure, I mean I guess it'll go on till we've won. And you wouldn't go off without me, would you, Mr Bradley?"
"Of course not," said Bradley loyally. "I wouldn't leave you here when there's excitement to be had. You wait and see, we'll drive the Yankees out together. I'll be a captain, with a fine horse, and you'll be by my side."
"Will you give me a gun?" said Micah eagerly.
Bradley turned his head to look at his friend. "Yes, but you mustn't let anyone see," he said. "The other soldiers wouldn't understand. But you could use it to save my life when I'm surrounded by the enemy, and that'd be all right. Then they'd give us both medals."
The boys smiled at each other, thinking of honour and glory. Suddenly Bradley sat upright, clutching his head.
"Ah!" he ejaculated. "Damn it!"
"If your Mamma hears you use that sort of language, it ain't you that'll get in trouble," Micah muttered. On more than one occasion he had been chastised by his own father for teaching, as Bradley's mother said, ungentlemanly speech to her son. He thought it rather unfair, as he was the one who learned it from Bradley. A look of worry crossed his face as he saw his young friend still covering his eyes as if the light were too much for them. "Bradley? Mr Bradley? Are you having one of your spells? Let's get down on the ground. I don't want you falling out of the tree."
Bradley looked at him dimly, as if seeing him from very far away. He shook his head, seeking, as it were to clear away the cobwebs from his mind. "Men," he said slowly. "Men are coming here."
Micah froze, looking at him intently. "Are you sure?" he asked at last.
Bradley looked at him, still lost it seemed in whatever strange mood had seized him, then his face cleared. "Yankees!" he gasped. "God damn it, Micah, we've got to get back to the house!" He dropped from the tree, followed by his friend, and took off through the wood at a run. Just before they came to the edge of the wood, some strange instinct caused Bradley to seize Micah and pull him aside, running now parallel to the tobacco field. At that very moment the man who, it seemed, had expected to lay hands on them as they ran past leapt out, his grasp missing the boys entirely. Fear lent them greater speed, and they did not even break stride as another man leapt for them, Bradley again helping Micah avoid disaster an instant before it could strike. They turned for the tobacco field again, for once in it they had every hope of losing their pursuers.
Crack.
The rifle shot, aimed high as a warning, sounded nothing like the childish noises they had earlier made in play. The boys skidded to a stop for a split second, looking about wildly in fear. In that moment a third man stepped plainly into view, a nasty smile playing about his lips. Deliberately he touched the brim of his hat to them, as if he were a polite caller, then swiftly raised the rifle, aiming at Micah, and pulled the trigger. The bullet buried itself deep into the ground beyond where the terrified boy had been standing, Micah himself having been tugged aside violently by Bradley even as the rifle barrel swung up. The two boys fell to the earth from the force that Bradley had used, and sobbed with fear as the men gathered around them.
"You're the boy we came for, that's for certain," the man with the rifle said. He had a Yankee accent, but neither he nor his companions were dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Union army.
"God damned Yankee spies!" Bradley yelled as loud as he could, hoping to bring aid to himself and Micah, or at least to warn anyone within earshot.
"Save your efforts, boy," the man said. He turned his attention to Micah. "You're awful light-skinned. You must have a pretty Momma." He ignored the boy then and turned to Bradley once again. "Is that what he is, boy? Is he your bastard brother?"
Bradley stared at him, shaking. It came to him all at once that whatever they had in mind for him, they wanted him alive, but Micah was nothing but a witness to their crime, and just a slave witness at that. He saw, clear as if it was happening before his eyes, the rifle firing, then saw Micah's chest darken with blood and his lifeless form lie still. With the certainty he had never understood, but upon which he relied, he knew that Micah would have value to them if they thought he was a blood relation.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, he's my brother."
"Take them both," the man said coldly.
His companions seized the boys, and pressed cloths soaked in chloroform over their faces. Their weak struggles ceased, and they knew no more.
* * *
Virginia, 1879
The morning was already well under way when Mr Abinadab Oates took himself outside to stand on the porch of his fine house. The gardens shone in the morning light, a perfect testament to the labour lavished upon them by his gardeners. Beyond, his fields stretched away, full of the crops that kept him in a pleasant state of life. His lands were not, he thought, among the best examples of the old plantations. To be honest, he considered it to be but a moderately large farm when compared to the lands of some of his neighbours. However, it produced enough income to make his life very easy, even when he took into consideration the wages he was required to pay the workers, most of whom had lived on his lands all their lives as both slaves and free men. He was about to re-enter the house when he saw movement on the driveway, and paused. Four horsemen were coming towards him, at a slow walk. He waited till they came up to the house, looking down on them from the porch. They looked rather tired and dusty, and were a peculiar looking group, he thought. Slightly ahead of the others, a young man dressed in a black coat and trousers sat ramrod straight on his horse, his eyes slightly hidden behind small spectacles. To his left and right were younger men, the one on the left with bizarrely long red hair showing beneath his hat and parallel thin scars on his cheeks, the one on the right with an eye-patch covering his left eye, the scars crossing his face nowhere as neat as those on the red-haired man. Behind them all a child, a slight Oriental boy, sat perched on his horse seemingly taking no interest in the scene.
"If you've come for work, you can speak to my overseer," Oates said. He looked them up and down, noting the well-worn boots and the gun-belts worn by the three men. Their clothes and equipment had been good when new, but had see hard use. "Farm work's all I have to offer," he said.
"We're not here for work," the young man in front said, his accent local to the region. He touched the brim of his hat courteously. "I'm calling on Mr and Mrs Crawford. Might they be at home?"
Oates laughed in disbelief. "You're far behind the times, son. The Crawfords haven't lived here for years. If you want their current address you could try the churchyard."
The young man went very still. "I see," he said at last.
Oates saw his two armed companions move casually, so that their coats did not impede access to their revolvers in any way. He scowled at them, showing no fear. Like dogs, they'd back down before authority.
"I think you should get off my land now," he said.
"Do you?" the young man asked politely. "Sir, my name is Bradley Crawford, and I'd appreciate you taking the time to tell me how my parents died." He drew and cocked his revolver in a swift motion and, without looking, aimed to his side. "Bob," he said, "I don't want to shoot you, but unless you put that shotgun down you're not leaving me much choice."
Oates gaped at him. He had hardly seen the middle-aged house servant come up himself, and this young man who called himself a Crawford simply could not have done so from where he sat.
"Bob can tell you who I am," the man said, his gun still aimed perfectly. "You remember me, don't you, Bob? You remember how I said the flood was coming one year and the storehouse floors should be raised, you remember me making my father call the doctor for Micah when we were six, and how he got here just at the same time Micah got bitten by that snake." He turned to look at the man. "You remember how we both vanished one day when we were nine."
Bob put the shotgun down with shaky hands. "Mr Bradley?" he said in disbelief. "We all thought you were dead. We looked all over for you and Micah."
Oates watched the revolver being holstered again, and took a stealthy step backwards.
"No, no," said the red-haired man in some kind of foreign accent. "Don't go, Crawford will want to talk to you some more."
"I'm back from the dead," Crawford said. "What happened here, Bob?"
"Your Daddy, I mean, Mr Crawford was killed in the war, Mr Bradley," said Bob. "And Miz Crawford couldn't afford to run the place after. She had to sell up to Mr Oates here and move into town. She took her maid Mary with her, and then she died two years back, Mary came to tell us." He looked sadly at Crawford. "I'm sorry to be the one that has to tell you this, Mr Bradley." He paused. "I should call you Mr Crawford now your father's gone."
"It doesn't matter what you call me," Crawford said. "It doesn't change anything." He turned his attention back to Oates. "Mr Oates," he said, "you look like you're thinking that maybe you'll have a legal battle on your hands, well --"
"I bought this place fair and square," Oates said. "You needn't think you can come in here pretending to be a long-lost heir and take it away."
Crawford gave him a thin smile and pushed his little spectacles up his nose. "Nothing could be further from my mind, sir," he said. "First I'd have to prove I am who I say I am, when all around here must know the Crawfords' son was lost many years ago, and then I would have to fight your purchase of the land. And from what I understand, the courts would be less than charitable to the rights of a member of an old slave-holding family. I don't want the land, Mr Oates."
Oates breathed easier, and Crawford looked at him coldly. The red-haired man grinned.
"But it seems you're relieved, Mr Oates, that I haven't asked more about my mother. Bob, tell me what I should know."
The man stammered and looked down at his feet, then in great worry at his employer. "Miz Crawford owed a lot of money," he said, "she had to sell up, Mr Bradley, there wasn't anything else she could do."
"It's all right," Crawford said. "It's not your fault. To whom did she owe it?"
"Mr Oates," said Bob, looking away in worry as Oates glared at him.
"He had lawyers call on her every week and finally paid her a tenth what the land is worth when she was sick and desperate," the red-haired man said in malicious satisfaction.
"I see," said Crawford, still looking at Bob. "Bob," he said, "I don't blame you. Nothing bad will happen to you. You were right to stay on here, where you knew things." He looked back at his companions. "None of the slaves here are to be harmed."
"They're not slaves any more," Oates sneered.
Crawford nodded. "Thank you, sir, you are right to correct me." He raised his voice again. "None of the workers are to be harmed. They've done nothing but take advantage of the freedom offered to them, and I commend them for it." He smiled and leaned down towards Bob, continuing, "I saw no wrong in slavery as a boy, being foolish and young. I've learned a thing or two about servitude since that has opened my eyes." He sat up straight again, his revolver in his hand, and casually shot Oates between the eyes. "I hope, however," he said quietly, "that I never learn to cheat in the ungentlemanly way this Yankee bastard cheated my mother."
The red-haired man laughed as Bob flinched and shook. Crawford dismounted and laid a hand upon his shoulder.
"I need money, and I'm regret to say I'm going to have to take it," he said. "You come along and show me where he keeps it. Don't worry, you tell the law about a gang of armed men forcing you to obey them, and you'll be fine."
"They'll never believe me, Mr Crawford," said Bob.
Crawford smiled with apparent real humour. "Why, Bob," he said. "Have you forgotten I can tell the future? Trust me. If you like, I'll have my associates here knock you out, though I don't think that should be necessary." He patted the man's shoulder absently and glanced about him. "It's strange how much smaller it all looks to me now. But I mustn't distract you from what you want to say. You ask the question you've been wanting to ask all along."
"Micah?" asked Bob, full of hope. "If you're alive, Mr Bradley --"
"I don't know," said Crawford quietly. "We were kept together for months, but we were separated after we reached Europe. I don't know what happened to him. I'm sorry."
Bob looked old all at once, his hopes of news of his son dashed. Crawford sighed and pushed him up the steps of the porch. Looking back at the others, who now dismounted, he said, "Small items and cash only. We'll be moving on, quick as we can."
"Do you want to burn it down?" the one-eyed man asked, looking in approval at the pocket watch he had taken from Oates' body, and then slipping it into his own pocket.
"No," Crawford said coldly, looking about at what had once been his whole and beloved world. "We don't have time to make sure it catches properly."