Walk in Hell Read Free Page A

rifle in hand, and stopped her. “We ain’t lettin’ folks go any further north’n this, ma’am,” he said. “Ain’t safe. Ain’t nowhere near safe.”
    “You don’t understand. I’m Anne Colleton, of Marshlands,” she said, confident he would know who she was and what that meant.
    He did. Gulping a little, he said, “I’d like to help you, ma’am,” by which he undoubtedly meant,
I don’t want to get into trouble with you, ma’am
. But he went on, “I got my orders from Major Hotchkiss, though—no civilians goin’ up this road. Them niggers, they got a regular front set up. They been plannin’ this a long time, the sons of bitches. Uh, pardon my French.”
    She’d been saying a lot worse than that herself. “Where do I find this Major Hotchkiss, so I can talk some sense into him?” she demanded.
    The Confederate militiaman pointed west down a rutted dirt track less than half as wide as the Robert E. Lee Highway. “There’s a church up that way, maybe a quarter mile. Reckon he’ll be up in the steeple, trying to spot what the damn niggers is doin’.”
    She drove the Vauxhall down the road he’d shown her. If she didn’t find the church, she intended to try to make her way north by whatever back roads she could find. This Major Hotchkiss might have banned northbound civilian traffic from the highway, but maybe he hadn’t said anything about other ways of getting where she still aimed to go.
    But there stood the church, a white clapboard building with a tall steeple. White men in butternut uniforms and old gray ones milled around outside. They all looked her way as she drove up. “I’m looking for Major Hotchkiss,” she called.
    “I’m Jerome Hotchkiss,” one of the men in butternut said; sure enough, he wore a single gold star on each collar tab. He didn’t look too superannuated. Then Anne saw he had a hook in place of his left hand. That would have left him unfit for frontline duty, but not for an emergency like this. He nodded to her. “What is it you want?”
    “I’m Anne Colleton,” she said again, and caused another stir. She went on, “Your sentry back by the highway said you were the man who could give me permission to keep going north toward Marshlands, my plantation.”
    “If any man could do that, I would be the one,” Major Hotchkiss agreed. “I have to tell you, though, it’s impossible. You must understand, we are not trying to put down a riot up ahead. It is a war, nothing less. The enemy has rifles. He has machine guns. He has men who will use them. And he has a fanatical willingness to die for his cause, however vile it is.”
    “No, you don’t understand,” Anne said. “I have to get back to the plantation. My brother is an invalid: the damnyankees gassed him this past spring. Do you know if Marshlands is safe? I tried to telephone from Charleston, but—”
    “Specifically, no,” Hotchkiss answered. “And most telephone lines are down, as you will have found. I can tell you this, though: it’s not safe to be white—unless you’re also a Red, and there are a few like that, the swine—between here and Columbia. Like I say, ma’am, we have ourselves a war here. In fact—” He stopped looking at her and started looking at the Vauxhall. “I’m going to ask you to step out of that motorcar, if you don’t mind.”
    “What? I certainly do mind.”
    “Ma’am, I am confiscating your motorcar in the name of the Confederate States of America,” Hotchkiss said. “This is a military area; I have that right. The vehicle will be returned to you at the end of this emergency. If for any reason it cannot be returned, you will be compensated as required by law.” When Anne, not believing what she was hearing, made no move to get out, the major snapped, “Potter! Harris!” Two of his men trained rifles on her.
    “This is an outrage!” she exclaimed. The soldiers’ faces were implacable. If she didn’t get out, they would shoot her. That was quite