Mud Creek

by Kelly Ferguson

  “Augh! Augh! Go, mamma! Take your calf and run!” Curtis’s strained and pleading commands fell on the disoriented and stationary ears of the young heifer.

  Mirage like, Bully appeared through the smoke and flames. Curtis’s eye grew large when he realized Bully’s presence.

  “Bully get that calf and run for the corral. That way, the mamma will follow ya!” Curtis ordered.

  “The hell with that calf, Curtis. I’m getting you outta here first!”

  When Bully reached to help free him, Curtis hit and blocked his efforts.

  “You ain’t touching me till you get that baby calf outta here, Bully, and I mean it. Remember, Ms. Lillian said you got to do what I say, and I say get that baby calf outta this barn, Bully! Now!”

  Exasperated, Bully lifted the calf, cradled it in his arms and began running for the giant opening. The bellowing mother followed in a staggering trot. While Bully ran, scared sober by the terrifying fire, amid the heat and sounds of anguish, the long hallway collapsed, spilling burning hay from the loft. Cascading waves of fire rained down. Bully heard Curtis’ screams over the roar. Bully felt the terrible heat on his back. He hesitated. He turned to see the entire structure collapse around Curtis. Bully screamed in a dreadful anguish, born from the pain of the withering fire and from his utter helplessness. He resumed his reluctant exit from the barn and emerged, gasping for air, staggering and suffocating from the smoke and heat.

  He placed the calf out of danger and returned to the opening of the barn. A wall of fire fed by the oak and hay greeted him with a searing heat; impossible heat.

  “Curtis!” Bully screamed.

  A huge draft horse appeared from the fire; wild eyed; flesh burning. It fell dead at Bully’s feet.

  The heat pushed Bully farther away. It was done. There was nothing left to do but watch along with the animals who had been lucky enough to escape. Bully slid to the ground, his back against a fence, and sobbed, gut wrenching sobs—sobs of loss, sobs of anger. and sobs of despair. Tears streamed down, streaking the soot and grime on his face. He clutched his stomach. Curtis’s screams continued to ring in his head, over the horrible dying sounds of the trapped animals. Bully placed his hands over his ears.

  Jessie’s World

  You can’t see ‘um, but you can hear ‘um, eyes popping outta your head, trying to see ‘um. Nothing. Just fog. Thick fog. Soupy like fog. Buzzing. Voices, buzzing. Shuffling. Blue coats, shuffling. Moving. Marching. Heart in your throat. Ears pounding. The earth still covered with frost. Freezing. Creole boys talking funny. Giggling. Lips quivering. Bacon. The smell of bacon and gun powder.

  “Mon Capitain! Mon Capitain! It’s Mon Capitain!”

  I turned my head to see the most magnificent figure astride a lathered, spirited black charger. It had to be the gallant Major John Pelham. The Creole gunner boys ran to him: excited and ready. I had heard about him and even talked to that Dalton fellah about him. But I’d never seen him. My first thought was---I would be willing to die for that man; strange; scary; but, unmistakable. He was impeccably dressed; not fancy, but neat. He had a beautiful red cloth around his hat, rich looking. My first thought was pretty. But men can’t be pretty, can they? No, handsome. But, not in a hard way. A boy man. That’s it. He was a boy man.

  For a moment, I forgot the freezing.

  The guns are ready. The men are ready. All waiting on the fog to lift. It is already happening. Very slow. Major Pelham loves his boys. You could tell by the way he smiles, jokes with them, even hugs them.

  He’d hug me too, if I wasn’t so new. I’m gonna walk right up to him and tell ‘um who I am, freezing or not.

  “Sir, Pvt. John Starke, sir. At your service.”

  “Where did you come from, son?” “Mississippi, sir!”

  “How old are you, young man?”

  “Almost thirteen, sir!”

  “Can you swab a cannon?”

  I thought I would die when he asked me that question.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Report to the Sergeant on the Napoleon!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  I saluted the best I could. He mounted his black charger with the grace of a dancer and rode toward the Napoleon at a full gallop. The sun’s presence burned the fog away.

  The crusty sergeant is busy readying his gun and positioning his men when I walk up. The crew is not much older than me. Boys. They say they’re from Louisiana and call themselves the Napoleon Detachment. The sergeant again asked me Major Pelham’s question.

  “Can you swab a cannon, Private?”

  “With the best of them, Sergeant!”

  Again, I lied.

  “Got a name?”

  “Starke, Sergeant. Private John Starke.”

  “Jean, take Starke here and use him as a reserve sponger.”

  “Me can do!”

  Jean grabs my arm and pulls me toward this cannon. It’s the biggest gun I’ve ever seen. When we get well beyond the Sergeant, I ask Jean the question that is exploding in my head.

  “Jean, what’s a sponger?”

  “Mon Starke, zee sponger cool zee gun and put out zee sparks after she go boom.”

  A feeling of comfort came over me with that information. Jean introduces me to two of his fellow “spongers” by the names of Dominic and Paoli. They didn’t look like any Confederate cannoneers my imagination had ever conjured up. Their uniforms consisted of anything they could find. If they once had uniforms, they were long gone. They’re wearing shirts too big for them, boots stolen from dead Yankees and ridiculous coats in every size and description. Excitement and anticipation fill the cannoneers. I watch Major Pelham, erect in his saddle, giving instructions to his men on the Napoleon cannon.

  Bertha

  Bully heard voices approaching. He moved away. He was in no mood to deal with Ms. Lillian, with field hands or with curious neighbors. He slipped to the west side of the burning barn and headed home to Alice Fae. Climbing over the third lot fence, he found the charred body of Fletcher, draped lifeless over a pool of blood.

  Bully’s mind raced. Maybe Curtis wasn’t stupid enough to destroy himself and burn his beloved barn down. Maybe this character, whoever he was, had something to do with it. Bully moved in closer. Aided by the enormous light emanating from the burning structure, Bully saw the unmistakable telltale mark. The corpse bore a gold canine tooth, like Willard’s. Carl made all his boys wear a golden left canine. Of course, Carl wore his on the right.

  Bully forgot about home, Alice Fae and Jessie. His thoughts turned to Mr. John, Willard, and Curtis. He also thought about killing Carl Butcher. Black rage filled his heart. Thoughts of killing Carl Butcher flooded his mind and consuming him.

  He thought of Mr. John’s prized possession. He ran along the fence, jumped a small ditch, and hurled himself over a four-strand barbed wire fence. Limbs brushed his face and his heart pounded. Bully’s long strides carried him along a worn path through the woods with one purpose: to reach the equipment shed. There, under a heavy chained door sat Bertha, Mr. John’s special project. It had been off limits since his death. Bully crawled through a window. His heart raced. Mr. John’s red monstrous creation sat in the shadows. Two winters and many rain-filled days were spent building Mr. John’s dream: the most outrageous. huge mechanical beast his mind could conceive. Bertha was powered by two massive Caterpillar bulldozer engines with mammoth oversized tires in tandem. Four immense exhaust pipes protruded from the fine crafted metal work. Huge lights graced this behemoth. They could illuminate an area large enough for an all-night rodeo. To compliment her titan presence, Mr. John rigged a massive eight-foot-wide iron structure across the front: half cowcatcher and half battering ram. On the outer edges were staff like iron rods that protruded an extra six feet skyward. Bertha had no equal.

  Bully prayed not for guidance, but for ignition—that the small auxiliary engine used to fire the larger engines would start. He grabbed the shotgun that kept by the door for intruding foxes, and with the assista
nce of a small lantern that hung on a nail by the door, Bully climbed toward the operator’s platform. He used the deep cleats of the rear tires for footsteps. He secured the shotgun and stepped out onto the walkway with the lantern. He moved toward the auxiliary engine.

  Gas. Yes. Choke. Okay. Bully turned the ignition and hit the starter. Nothing. Dead battery. Damn.

  He grabbed the backup pull rope and secured the knot at the end of the rope in the notched pulley on the crank shaft. Wrapping the rope with great care, he gave a mighty pull. Nothing. Again. Wrap. Pull. Nothing. Again. Wrap. Bully pulled with all his strength. The engine fired but died.

  Again.

  Wrap. Pull. The small engine sputtered and came to life. Bully feathered the throttle, adjusted the choke and nursed the engine until it ran at full throttle. He adjusted the throttle on the powerful main engines and pulled the lever connecting the auxiliary engine to the first engine. With the roar of a thousand lions, the engine fired. The earth shook. The tin roof rattled. Bully repeated the process, and again, the second monstrous engine came to life.

  Bully hit the light switch and the entire shed area flashed with a blinding light. Squinting, his eyes adjusted. Bully depressed the powerful clutch and engaged the transmission. He released the pedal. The massive engines engaged the transmission. The tires moved. The machine lurched forward. Bully’s hand pulled the throttle and the battering ram pierced the large wooden doors. They exploded with a thunderous crack over the roar of the engines.

  The cold night air brought Bully to a higher state of alertness. His heart raced and his spirit soared, feeding off the smell of diesel exhaust and his decision to kill Carl Butcher. He moved down the lane and out onto the open road toward Guntown and Carl’s place. When Bully passed the burning barn, he saw Ms. Lillian standing among thirty to forty neighbors, shaking her fist in his direction.

  Gallant John Pelham

  There is really no way to describe the incredible sight the rising fog reveals. Miles and miles of Yankees, 125,000 strong, colorful banners flying, almost parade like, stretching up the Rappahannock River clear to Fredericksburg. Campfires and tents dotting the hillsides and the sun glistening off their cannons. The sergeant says our job is to prevent Gen. Franklin’s men, all 55,000 of them, from moving in on Gen. Stonewall’s right flank, whatever a flank is. All I want is to shoot that cannon and ride with Pelham, I mean Major Pelham.

  Major Pelham is riding toward our position in a majestic gallop with his hat high in the air. He whirls around, rises in his stirrups and gives the command we all want to hear with a voice that echoes across the valley.

  “Fire!”

  My mind is blank for a split second; the cannon is so loud. The blue snake like movement of the Yankees halts, disoriented, no more than 500 yards from the Sarge, Jean, me and the rest of the Napoleon Detachment. Major Pelham is barking orders to us.

  “Swab!” Jean jumps forward and rams this wet mop on a stick down into the end of the Napoleon. I cannot believe how fast Jean moves. Jean is removing the swab the next command comes from Major Pelham.

  “Load!” The Sarge and another cannoneer are loading powder and solid shot into the end of the cannon.

  “Ram!” Dominic and Pialo move like lightning to secure the powder, shot and packing into the barrel.

  “Fire!” Sarge ignites the cannon with thunderous effect.

  The Yankees fall to the ground: some dead and wounded; others just trying to survive. The giant blue snake stops, lurches backwards, then begins to move forward again.

  “Swab!”

  “Ram!”

  “Load!”

  “Fire!”

  Each time Major Pelham barks his command, the cannoneers respond with deadly results. At once, I am envious, wanting to belong in the ranks of Pelham’s men; to ride with Pelham. They rain down a terrible fire on those Yankees!

  I know one thing with absolute certainty: it’s more fun to shoot when the enemy is not shooting back. Fire, smoke and dirt begin to fly around our position. The rhythmic commands of Major Pelham become faint background music to the thunderous burst that falls around the valiant Napoleon Brigade.

  “Limber up, men! Shift positions! Up the ridge, men!

  Move! Move!”

  Pelham is magnificent. We hit. We move before the Yankees can find their range. I grab a swab and run behind the limbered-up cannon. A mule can run faster than you can imagine. The new position is even better. I can see across the valley toward the ocean of blue soldiers. Within minutes, the brigade is pouring shot after shot into the Yankees. With a fiery blast, a Yankee shell finds our position. Smoke, dirt, and shrapnel fill the air. Our cannon takes a direct hit, breaking the axel. Amid the confusion, Jean falls to the ground with blood gushing from his chest. Major Pelham is by his side.

  “It hurts, mon Capitain,” Jean is saying.

  “You are a brave boy, Jean. I will get you to the surgeons as soon as we get the bleeding stopped.”

  Major Pelham comforts Jean like he is his own. Meanwhile, another Napoleon is doubling its fire. We move Jean away from the battle. Couriers are coming from Gen. Stewart, ordering and begging Major Pelham to retreat. He won’t. He keeps declining until all the ammunition is gone. With nothing else to throw at the Yankees, except out hats, we retreat. What a glorious day!

  Well, I’m not counting the Jean part.

  Heading To Carl’s

  Bertha sucked fuel through her oversized pistons. She begged for more. Fire poured from her great exhaust stacks. Bully’s visions of Mr. John, Alice Fae, Jessie, Mamma, Willard and Curtis inflamed his rage for Carl Butcher. Mr. John would not stand for it! He would not be run off or burned out. Carl killed Willard. He killed Curtis; he would not stop. When Carl locked on his prey, he would not stop. Alice Fae, Jessie, or maybe Ms. Francina would be next. Carl always started with the weak then worked his way up. The high Sheriff Bigelow was worthless. No, Carl had to die tonight. Bully reached down and patted his shotgun. He felt his pockets stuffed with shotgun shells.

  Mud Creek Bridge appeared in the distance. Approaching the structure, the fire in Bully’s belly burned white hot with rage. He reached for the throttle and gave Bertha the last remaining bit of fuel. She surged. The huge tires struck the bridge’s timbers. The structure shook. The monster rumbled toward Guntown.

  Jessie’s Promise

  We’re skedaddling back to Gen. Stuart’s position with Jean, our cannons and equipment. Shot and shells fly from all directions. We take refuge in this old shack of a house and place Jean in an old iron bed. Jean ain’t looking so good. His skin is ashen in color and he is drifting in and out of consciousness.

  “Starke, can you shoot a musket?” Major Pelham asks.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I am going to leave your here to take care of Jean as best you can. I’ll send an ambulance wagon. You will not let me down, will you Starke?”

  “No, sir!”

  He gives me the prettiest musket you have ever seen and an ammo belt. I watch Major Pelham mount his horse and move his men out. I feel my chest about to burst with a warm feeling. I’ll kill the whole Yankee army before I let Major Pelham down.

  Carl Meets Bertha

  “Mizel, you boys need to wipe that frown off your face and pay a bit more attention to the game. Otherwise, ole Carl is going to win what little money you got left.”

  Carl grinned. His hand revealed a pair of aces and a pair of deuces. Carl sent the rest of the crew home and waited for Mizel and the boys to return from their little chore. The loss of Fletcher upset the boys and Carl attempted to resurrect their spirit.

  “You don’t need to fret yourself over that Fletcher boy. It was his time and that is all there is to it. When it’s your time, it’s your time.”

  “I shouldn’t have let him go, Mr. Carl.” Mizel spoke. “He was willing, but he wasn’t ready for burnings and such. He still was too much of a kid.”

  He forced himself to look through his cards.

  “Ho
w else are you going to become a man, Mizel, if you don’t get out there with ‘um. That Fletcher boy was willing to venture out, I have to hand it to him. I’ll take a card and make it a good one, Junior.”

  Carl threw an eight of clubs down and looked for an ace or a deuce.

  “You must be pretty happy with that hand of yours, Boss. Just need one card, huh?” Mizel grinned.

  “Maybe I am, maybe I’m bluffing.” Carl spoke, stone faced. He stared at his cards.

  “Do you hear something?” one of Carl’s boys spoke up.

  “The sound of your money moving from your pocket to my pocket, son.” Carl laughed.

  “No, I mean from outside.”

  “Yea, I hear something, too,” Junior said.

  “You boys just don’t want to face the music concerning this fine hand of cards in my possession. It’s probably a train.”

  A box of grits fell off a shelf and the single light bulb swayed from the ceiling.

  Junior jumped from his seat and ran toward a window.

  “That’s no train I’ve ever heard!”

  He never made it. Bertha’s giant ram crashed through the wall impaling Junior. Bully unleashed an unforgettable Rebel Yell. The mighty blow knocked the entire building off its block foundation. Money, poker chips, bags of dog food and blood flew in all directions. The old potbellied heater crashed into the back wall. Carl, Mizel and the boys were knocked from their chairs by the impact and blinded by the bright lights when Bully illuminated the massive array of lights. Mizel gained his composure, rose to his feet and made his way toward his shotgun, which lay on the floor. Carl cursed and fired. His shots landed in the general direction of Bertha. Mizel reached for his shotgun. A twelve-gauge blast erupted from the wall of light, audible over the roar of Bertha’s engines. Both barrels of Bully’s shotgun hit Mizel in the gut, cutting Carl’s most loyal boy in half. The impact knocked Mizel through a window and he fell dead on the ground outside the building. The two young men saw their chance and exited through a window. Bully throttled down Bertha, reloaded and jumped to the ground and landed in the store’s rubble.