“Carl! Carl! It’s me, Bully!”
The eerie sound of Bertha’s engines, the long dark shadows, the crooked rows of shelving and the settling dust cast a surreal ambiance throughout the destroyed store.
“Thought you might like to meet Bertha!”
“That’s the damnedest entrance I have ever witnessed, son!”
Carl’s voice emerged from the darkness. Bully fired a shot in Carl’s direction.
“Damn, son! We need to talk this out!”
Bully fired. Bang! He unbreeched his shotgun and reloaded. A hail of pistol fire erupted from the darkness.
“Augh!” Bully grimaced.
Blood seeped through Bully’s pant leg. He fell to the floor. He returned the gunfire in the direction of Carl. Pain shot through his lower extremities. When Bully breached his shotgun to reload, the unmistakable sound of Bertha’s engines roared to life and she lurched forward. Carl had captured Bertha! Bully rolled to the side. Bertha’s mighty tires crushed chairs and tables and crashed through the back wall of the store under a hail of gunfire. Carl’s maniacal laughter erupted.
Carl and Bertha emerged from the store’s rubble, made a wide circle in the field behind the store and halted facing the wreckage. Carl reloaded his pistol, lit a cigar and with a deafening roar of Bertha’s engines, rumbled forward. Bully fought to stay alert despite the pain of his wound. Bully caught a glimpse of Carl’s sinister grin. The morning light broke over the trees. He crawled to a broken window and with much effort, placed his shotgun on the sill. Bully felt the ground shake. He cocked both barrels of his shotgun. Had he reloaded in the confusion? Could he get a shot through the mass of iron and steel before him? Bully’s mind raced.
Bully felt his heart beating in his ears and sweat dripped from his nose onto the barrel. He aimed his shotgun between the massive exhaust pipes of Bertha. Not yet… Not yet… Junior’s limp body still hung from the massive iron ram. Berth’s giant tires threw dirt high into the air. Fire poured from the cherry red stacks. Death emanated from Carl’s eyes. Not yet… Not yet…
Now! Bully squeezed both triggers. The shotgun fired. Bertha crashed into the building once again. Bully rolled into the corner. The shotgun went flying from the impact. Bertha knocked the last support from the building. The roof crashed down around him. He scrambled for his shotgun. Bertha exited the other side of the building. With much effort, Bully reloaded and waited for the next assault: it never came. An eerie silence prevailed. Bully, with much effort, got to his feet and with great caution, emerged from the devastation. He made his way past Mizel’s body and limped toward what used to be the front of Carl’s place. There sat Bertha across the road from the store as if waiting for Bully. He approached: shotgun cocked; and adrenalin flowing. There Carl lay, his crumpled body between the clutch pedals and gear shift: a lone buck shot wound between his eyes. His cigar clenched between his teeth with his grin intact. His body had crashed onto the kill switch; if it hadn’t, Bertha would have been in Tishomingo county by now.
Bully felt exhausted. He wanted to go home to Alice Fae and Jessie. He wanted to sleep in his bed. But there were a few last things left to do. He hobbled back around the corner of the leaning store, and with considerable effort, he removed the long blue coat Mizel wore. It had been Willard’s coat. Bully put his ole friend’s coat on and, with much effort, pulled Junior’s dangling body from Bertha’s ram. He climbed atop Bertha, took Carl’s last cigar and threw Carl’s limp body over the side. He touched the starter to the auxiliary motor. It came to life. Bully engaged Bertha’s main engines and they roared to life. Bully turned toward home.
The sun peaked over the horizon. Bully made his way through Guntown and out onto the open road. His leg throbbed and ached, but it was only a flesh wound. While exhausted, Bully felt wonderful. For the first time in his life, he breathed air without living in Mr. John’s shadow. He was his own man. Maybe he would take Jessie and Alice Fae to the Delta and become a farm manager on one of those river plantations. He once had an offer to learn the sawmill business. Maybe he would look that fellah up again. Maybe Ms. Lillian would come to her senses and give him a chance to prove himself. He lit Carl’s cigar and inhaled. Exhaling the fine smoke from the cigar, Bully grinned. This was true freedom.
Protecting Jean
While I watch over Jean, the battle rages outside. I can see the whole thing from a window overlooking the battlefield. I run back and forth, checking on Jean and watching the battle. Cannon balls are whizzing overhead, and men are yelling; dying. My musket is ready and I’m anxious to kill a Yankee. I know I could if I had a chance. Jean’s sleeping and there is not a lot for me to do but pace back and forth and be ready to protect him.
Two Worlds Collide
Bully pulled into the “mansion’s” yard. The sun peaked over the willow trees behind the house. Alice Fae appeared through the front door on her way to Ms. Lillian’s.
“Miss Lillian’s gonna kill you, Bully, for getting Mr. John’s contraption outta the shed! Where have you been?!” she shouted over the idling engines in disbelief.
“Taking care of a little business, darling. I’ve been shot. Come help me off Miss Bertha.” Bully flicked the ashes from his cigar and hit the kill switch. Bertha shuddered. Her engines came to a stop.
“Shot!” Alice Fae ran around the huge tire and assisted Bully to the ground. “Where?”
“Guntown.”
“Bully, don’t play with me like that!”
“In the leg, that’s all. I’m not going to die or anything. Just help me into the house.”
“Bully, I been worried sick ‘bout you!”
“Alice Fae, if I got to get shot every once in a while, to get some attention from you, it just might be worth it.”
“Ms. Lillian is going to kill me for being late. I know she will.”
Alice Fae helped Bully up the porch steps. Rover looked on. Struggling, they made their way up the rickety front steps and entered the front door. Jessie stood in the doorway of his bedroom with a musket in his hand, an ammo belt around his waist and a canteen around his neck. Jessie leveled the musket at Bully and Alice Fae.
“That is far enough, Yankees!”
“What the hell are you talking ‘bout, Jessie!” Bully shouted.
“Put that gun down and help me to the bed.”
“It’s Pvt. John Starke to you, mister. My orders are to guard this position, and I’ll kill you if I have to, soldier, wounded or not.”
“Alice Fae, talk to him, I’m fading,” Bully pleaded.
“Honey put the gun down and help your mamma. We got to get daddy to bed.”
“My orders are to protect this house from Yankees, and I’ll have to ask you to step away from that soldier, miss.”
The young boy soldier cocked the musket.
“Jessie, are you crazy or something? Give me that damn gun!” Bully shouted and stepped toward the young soldier.
“Halt! Halt!” the young soldier shouted.
Bully limped forward; Alice Fae reached for Bully’s belt. He grabbed the musket barrel. The young soldier fired. Alice Fae screamed. Bully fell to the floor, wounded in the chest. The young soldier began to reload, muttering under his breath.
“Swab, load, ram, fire! Swab, load, ram, fire.”
The young soldier, satisfied he had killed his first Yankee, turned and left the room. His total concern was reconnecting with Major Pelham and his men. Bully died in Alice Fae’s arms. She never made it to Miss Lillian’s.
Epilogue
The Dogwoods are blooming, and folks still haven’t quit talking about all the goings on down on the Watson place. One gossip wave after another splashed on these country folks, keeping everyone stirred up since Mr. John’s demise down on Mud Creek. Harold Pepper and the rest of those old men over at the store put in overtime just to stay up with all the news. The crowning blow came when word got out that Doc Grasson and Judge Claxton met the day of Bully’s killing. That meeting lasted most of the night. Doc
convinced the judge that due to young Jessie’s age and what had happened at that shack, no jury would convict him in a court of law. Those two old men also knew Jessie would wear a mark country folks would not forget. The confusing part for the judge, however, was this: why was this old country doctor so interested in the boy? Did Doc not have enough to do: patching up folks; tending his roses; and stomping over ever battlefield brought on by that Yankee invasion?
What Doc revealed had all the women folk leaving their quilting frames and reaching for the smelling salts. According to Doc, Mr. John had raped that woman back in his youth after a drunken night at the county fair; nine months later, Bully was born. The judge just took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the table. Doc told how he delivered the child and overheard the poor woman cursing Mr. John while in a morphine stupor. Doc kept his secret for all these years. After her family disowned her, Mr. John had some remorse for his dirty deed and attempted to do the right thing by the girl and child---not without a price, however.
When Doc and the judge emerged from their meeting, both agreed that Jessie would have to leave the county to have any semblance of a life. Doc agreed to speak with Alice Fae. She went along with Doc and the judge’s views but balked at leaving herself. She squalled and cried, but in the end, she would not leave that farm and what she knew. Exasperated, Doc made a bold move and took it upon himself to get Jessie out of the county. They loaded that old Chevy with bags and dog: and left early one morning, some say toward New Orleans. The real shock came when Miss Francina met them with her bags packed and loaded in, too. Miss Lillian was heartbroken at the thought of her Francina leaving, some say. Alice Fae caught the worst of it, but the old woman recovered. Folks saw her buying cotton seed for the spring planting, and Judge Claxton gave her a talking to for taking that Oldsmobile and running C.C. Bates off the road one afternoon. Some say she grinned when she stepped off the porch, leaving the judge’s office. Oh, yes, Beaufort King moved in and from all appearances, the Wild Cat never stopped flowing from those hills; that’s hearsay, of course.
About the Author
Kelly Ferguson is a Southern storyteller. The art of storytelling is a powerful tool: to engage; to communicate; and to create the magic of humor. Kelly Ferguson is a master. Whether on the written page, before a group, or in the healing arts Kelly Ferguson is a force. He is a husband, father, brother, healer and farmer in recovery.
Kelly Ferguson can be reached by email at:
[email protected]
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