South Carolina Railroads, 1863
Tim and Red moved right along, but the door of the shack swung wide and a man stood, big and silent, silhouetted in the light. Tim stopped and raised his hand. “Good evening,” he said. “Sorry to pass so close.”
The man didn’t answer and Tim turned to go. A voice boomed out above the snarling of the dog. “Come here, Yankees.”
They turned and faced the door. Tim hesitated, then moved toward the light. The fellow was a Negro. His skin was dark as ebony. He looked as if he could break a man in two with a flick of his wrist. He half turned toward the menacing dog. “Hush,” he rasped. Then he cocked his head. “I see I was right.”
Tim looked straight at the man but didn’t speak.
Now the colored man rumbled, “I should turn you back. But I don’t care a damn for this War.” He lowered his head like an angry bull. “I don’t trust any man, white or black. Get out.”
Tim started to speak, but the big man moved his hand through the air in front of his eyes as if he were pushing aside a rock. He raised his voice. “Get out!”
As they moved away Tim shivered. His spirits sank. The encounter had seemed an ill omen.
Off to the left the river glistened in the starlight. As they walked beside the track they crossed a highway at the edge of town and finally gained the shelter of the woods.
Now the river ran close to the track and they could hear the sound of water against the rocks. As their eyes grew accustomed to the starlight they saw dashes of white where the river flowed by little islands and around the rocks.