“You could make good money,” Tommy pointed out.
“I don’t think so,” Silsby said. “Me and Charlie is going to Texas and find us jobs down there.”
Charlie once again sank into contemplation and liquor. He finished his glass of whiskey and poured another. “You know what, Silsby? If we got enough money together, we could start our own spread down in Texas.”
Now it was Silsby’s turn to be thoughtful. He took a drink and rolled it around in his mouth before swallowing. Then he spoke. “What if Dennis and Tommy went in with us? We could buy one hell of an outfit if the four of us all chipped in.”
“Good idee!” Dennis exclaimed.
“Yeah!” Charlie said. “We could call it the Rocking H in memory of Mr. Harknell.”
“I’m all for that,” Silsby said.
Tommy, grinning now, said, “I’ll tell you what, boys. Let’s make a night of this. We can get something to eat then go get a poke and come back here and get good’n drunk and talk about one a hell of a spread in Texas.”
“Then get some more pokes,” Tommy added.
“But first a toast,” Charlie said, raising his glass. “Here’s to cowboys and ranches in Texas!”
“No!” Silsby disagreed. “Here’s to the new Rocking H spread!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Samuel Luther Hollings was born in the dark, predawn hours of November 9, 1890. His coming into the world began with his mother’s initial labor pains on an early Saturday afternoon and continued through the night to just before Sunday’s sunrise. Fionna and midwife Mary Matthews tended Rebecca during the entirety of her ordeal. The Matthews family had staked their claim a mile farther down the creek from the McCracken place, and the friendship between the two households had now expanded to include Grant and Rebecca’s.
Fionna and Mary worked through the night with the mother-to-be. While the ministering went on in the bedroom, the father and grandfather sipped coffee in the kitchen of the Hollings farmhouse. Harvey Matthews dropped by for a little while, but returned to his farm before the birth occurred. He had to tend to the necessary daily milking of his small dairy herd.
Luther, the veteran of six birthings, was calm and not overly concerned. Grant did his best to emulate his father-in-law, but the long ordeal finally got to him at three o’clock in the morning. He caved in under the pressure of apprehension, and began to pace nervously and smoke cigars incessantly.
It was expected to be a difficult birth since it was Rebecca’s first, and both attending women braced for a struggle. But when the time finally came, the delivery was relatively easy and fast. Rebecca bore down as advised, and after some initial struggling the baby slid easily out into the world. He was quickly cleaned and wrapped up warmly in a blanket before being placed at his mother’s breast.
When the men were allowed to troop into the bedroom, they found a red-faced little addition to their family group. Grant was taken aback when his son greeted him with closed eyes, clenched fists, and loud yelling. He thought something was wrong with the baby, and promptly made the usual examination of counting fingers and toes. Rebecca, exhausted and still perspiring, smiled up at her husband. “You have a son, darling. Isn’t he pretty?”
“Handsome,” Grant corrected her. “Boys are handsome.”
“Let him be pretty now,” Rebecca said. “He can be handsome later on.”
Grant kissed his wife, then his new son. “That’s enough,” Fionna announced. “You men git!” Luther and Grant obediently withdrew to the kitchen, the new father grinning widely and proudly.
“You done fine, son,” Luther said.
“Nothing to it,” Grant said, biting the end off a fresh cigar.
~*~
Sammy Hollis was born at a time of the year when work on the farms was not too demanding. This was that period between the late summer harvesting of the old crop and the spring planting of the new. The farmers had only light chores and occasional maintenance work to keep them busy. The little boy was able to enjoy ample attention from everyone in his limited world during the first months of his life. He spent as much time at his grandparent’s house as he did his own. This was fine with Luther and Fionna who would have happily allowed the little one to move in with them.
It was on a late afternoon just after the New Year when Sammy was with his grandparents. Both had been cuddling and playing with the baby when Fionna remarked, “I think we’re spoiling him, Luther.”
“Ain’t we supposed to?” Luther asked. “We done our share of making young’uns mind. Now we can indulge ’em to our hearts’ content.” He held the baby and tickled his chin with a finger. “I’m done scolding and hitting. I’ll never do that again, no matter what.”
Fionna knew that Silsby was always in Luther’s thoughts even if he only mentioned him at rare moments. She walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, patting him gently. “It’s a matter of faith, Luther. You got to hold on to that. Things will turn out fine in the bye and bye.”
“I pray so.”
Fionna looked out at the setting sun. “Rebecca should be by to get him directly.”
Rebecca visited for a while each time she brought the baby over to be cared for. On many occasions, especially during bad weather, she stayed the night to avoid exposing Sammy to the cold. Those overnight stays left Grant time to be alone. With not much to keep him occupied and the shorter days of winter well settled over the southern plains, he enjoyed those hours of solitude. It was something new in his life. After being raised in a crowded home, then living in barracks, he found the uniqueness of seclusion a refreshing experience. It was a chance for Grant Hollings to get to know Grant Hollings.
He had gotten into the habit of sipping whiskey during times of particularly deep contemplation. The alcohol freed the former army officer from his self-imposed inhibitions enough to help him face the truths in his new life with a startling clarity and frankness. One of the most undeniable, unalterable of these realizations kept emerging during those periods of personal reflection: Grant Hollings hated farming.
He also became retrospective about the Army. He had loved being a soldier. A man like Grant Hollings needed a uniform or other sign to indicate he had some command position that set him apart from the crowd. Those were the driving forces that spurred him to seek a commission in the first place. A sergeant’s chevrons weren’t enough. He wanted a more sophisticated sort of responsibility and authority. He was proud of the uniform and what it represented, and he resented the circumstances that had forced him to turn against that great thing in his life. It was a stark injustice he took personally.
If he had been given the chance for a better education as a young boy, he would have been more able to follow the American custom of dragging one’s self up by one’s bootstraps. After a few more years of a solid education he could have qualified for a congressional appointment to West Point. But the poor school system of New Wrexham, Pennsylvania hardly prepared any of its students for serious higher learning. When a boy completed his schooling in that mining company town, he wasn’t qualified for doing much more than going down into those horrible tunnels to dig out the coal. Or enlisting in the Army.
Grant’s hard-earned commission did nothing for him when it came to advancing into the upper echelons of the military. Others, with the right background, schooling, social position, and political connections would move far beyond Lieutenant Grant Hollings. It was like being an impoverished nephew in a wealthy family. You have the name but not the full acceptance, so forget any meaningful or helpful inheritance.
Grant admitted to himself that the snubs Rebecca endured from the regimental wives could be attributed to him too. Perhaps, because their own husbands’ positions in a colored regiment galled them, the women censured his wife that much more because of her husband’s humbler road into the officer cadre. His presence in the regiment confirmed their own inadequacies. His wife, married into their midst, made them feel especially taken down when she quickly adapted to so m
any of the customs and traditions they held in such high esteem. She had shown them that one did not have to come from a certain social class to acquire the savoir-faire to function in what they considered la société des femmes de l’aristocratie. In fact, Rebecca had amply demonstrated that it took only the barest of effort, showing up the shallowness of their collective conventions and deportment.
Grant and Rebecca’s situation in that military circle where chance and circumstances had led them, was wonderfully described by one of Grant’s favorite authors Lorenzo Dow:
You can and you can’t — you shall and you shan’t — you will and you won’t — and you will be damned if you do, and you will be damned if you don’t.
No matter what they did, they would be wrong.
Therefore, like many of those impoverished nephews cut off from the inheritance, Grant left home. Turning his back on the Army hurt like hell and cut a wound deep into his soul. Rebecca had no real idea of the extent of anguish and sadness that had torn at him as he penned that letter resigning his commission.
Now, as a farmer, he felt he was in another awkward position. He was a landowner, but not through the purchase or inheritance of a large estate. He had bought one hundred and sixty acres of land that the previous owner had taken possession of by driving some stakes into the ground. And he had gotten it by buying the property at a good price from a generous and affectionate father-in-law who wanted the young couple close by.
Farming was hard, boring, repetitious labor like coal mining without the confinement and darkness. Grant spent a good part of the day hanging onto plow handles while staring at a mule’s ass. To make things worse, Luther ran the operation. The father-in-law lay out the daily plans and schedules, making all decisions as to what to plant, when to do it, and where to do it.
However, within the boredom and drudgery of working a farm, there lurked ominous risk. Because of this, nothing could be taken for granted. Good fortune was precarious and could be wiped away in a flash of bad luck. The sun in a season of drought might fry a season’s crops; torrential rains could flood the creek enough to sweep over carefully-tended fields; storms might flatten an entire crop almost ready for harvest; and the possibility of sustaining a serious injury or coming down with a debilitating illness always loomed large in life.
Grant kept his feelings to himself. The last thing he wanted was to let his personal dissatisfaction destroy Rebecca’s happiness. He could tell she was at a place in her life where she found complete, permanent contentment. Grant loved her too much to take that away.
On those dark winter evenings as he sipped whiskey, he felt like he was in limbo. Changing from soldier to farmer hadn’t solved anything other than provide a means of livelihood. The gnawing emptiness in his psyche had not been filled one iota. Some sort of beneficial change had to come eventually or things would go beyond his power to prevent his marriage from plummeting into misery.
While Grant spent hours in sullen, secret thoughts, Luther McCracken, like his daughter, was extremely happy with the way things were going on the two farms. Fionna, on the other hand, had an instinctive awareness regarding her family. Her perception of those closest in her life was precise and accurate because of that sensitivity. It wasn’t long before those intuitive feelings caused the woman serious concern. After putting it off for several seeks, Fionna spoke of her worries during one of the visits when Rebecca brought Sammy over to be indulged by his grandparents.
It was mid-afternoon and Luther had finished his day’s activities of installing shutters on the back windows of the house. He, Fionna with Sammy, and Rebecca sat around the kitchen table enjoying a fresh pot of coffee. Fionna looked at Rebecca, asking, “How is Grant today?”
“He’s fine, Ma,” Rebecca answered, glad that somebody else was holding the baby for a while. “He’s been whitewashing the barn.”
“We ain’t had much of a chance to visit with him,” Fionna remarked.
Luther interjected, “We see him most ever’ Sunday at church. I work in the fields with Grant ever’day during planting and harvest.”
“But he don’t ever come over here much with Rebecca and the baby,” Fionna said. “I was just hoping he’d visit a little bit more.” Then she quickly added, “Not that he has to, o’course.”
“There’re things that keep him busy, Ma,” Rebecca said. “You have to remember that our place ain’t been —” She stopped and started again. “— hasn’t been kept up like this one.”
“I just want him to feel welcome here, that’s all,” Fionna said, cuddling the baby.
“He does,” Luther said. “Why shouldn’t he?”
“He likes to come over here,” Rebecca added. “I don’t know what would make you think otherwise.”
Luther studied his wife as she cooed at Sammy, then asked, “What’s on your mind, Fionna?”
“What do you mean, Luther?”
“I can tell you’ve been thinking on something.”
“Pa’s right,” Rebecca agreed.
“Well,” Fionna said, “leaving the Army was a big step for Grant. That’s quite a change from being a soljer to being a farmer.”
“He wasn’t no soljer,” Luther said. “He was an officer.”
“That makes it an even bigger change,” Fionna argued.
“He’s getting along fine,” Rebecca said. “I think.” Then she asked, “Ma, have you noticed something about Grant that I haven’t?”
“He’s quieter than he used to be,” Fionna said. She wanted to mention how quiet Silsby had been just before running away, but it would have hurt Luther’s feelings. “It seems like he’s got something on his mind.”
“Sure he does,” Luther said. “Grant’s prob’ly thinking on the spring planting coming up in a few weeks.”
“I think he’s pondering more than just farming,” Fionna said.
“What do you think is going on in his mind?” Rebecca inquired.
“I don’t know, darling,” Fionna said. “But I thought he might have said something to you.”
“About what?” Rebecca asked.
Luther asked, “Fionna, what in the world are you trying to say?”
Fionna felt she’d gone far enough. “Oh! I’m just turning into a silly ol’ woman.” She made a face at Sammy. “Ain’t I, dumpling?” Sammy smiled back at her and cooed with pleasure at being talked to.
Luther was glad to change the subject. “Do you need to go to market day in town Saturday?”
“Not unless you have a reason to go,” Fionna replied. “All I need is some thread.”
“Are you making something, Ma?” Rebecca asked.
“I thought I’d start a quilt,” Fionna said. “Mary Matthews has some extry material and wants to do some quilting before spring.”
“Can I help?” Rebecca asked.
“You should,” Fionna said, smiling. “Since the quilt is for you.”
The two women pushed any concerns about Grant aside. They turned their attention to quilting, remembering the big quilting bees that were always going on in the Boomer camp. After a few minutes they began making plans for the upcoming project. Luther sipped his coffee and let his mind wander to what he considered more important matters. Fionna suddenly stopped speaking to Rebecca in mid-sentence. She turned to Luther. “You ain’t too bossy with Grant, are you?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I mean you tell him nice when things got to be done, don’t you?”
“Sure!” Luther insisted. “He don’t know nothing ‘bout farming. I just give him guidance. That’s all.”
Fionna studied him for a moment more before returning to the conversation about quilting.
~*~
In reality, the two farms were one operation under Luther’s guidance. The older man had worked the earth all his life in Missouri. He had an instinct for soil and seed that made him choose the right crop for the right year. His decisions had never turned on him. Bumper crops he grew back in his home state made him
a prosperous, envied farmer with political enemies who opposed him both philosophically and out of jealousy. They considered cutting a moneyed abolitionist down to size a most satisfying accomplishment.
When Luther decided to leave for the new territory, he had gotten a good price on the Missouri property. The locals’ pro-rebel sympathies didn’t prevent them from bidding against each other for the McCrackens’ prime land. Luther worked the deal through the local bank and made a sizable profit from the sale. That back-up money had made it easy to get credit at the Medicine Bundle bank. The local financial situation also accounted for the McCrackens’ two-story home that was the finest in the whole area.
~*~
The winter dusk settled in fast, darkening the McCracken kitchen. Rebecca wrapped Sammy in his blanket, and gathered up her things.
“I must get back and fix Grant’s supper.”
“Give him our love,” Fionna said.
After quick good-byes, Rebecca walked out of the house and across the farmyard. A brisk stroll up the road some fifty yards brought her to the entrance to her own place. She found Grant at the kitchen table. He sat with a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. He smiled a greeting at her and took Sammy in his arms. “What’s dad’s little boy been doing?” he asked. “Bothering grandpa and grandma?”
Rebecca hung up her coat and sat down. “What do you want for supper?”
“I’m not real hungry,” Grant said. “But if you’ve got something to go with that cornbread from yesterday, I’d eat it.”
“I can fry some ham,” Rebecca replied, trying to discern any signs of emotion or mood in Grant’s demeanor. She decided he was just fine. “I’ll start supper now.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The February night was raw and cold with thick black clouds moving slowly across a pale wintry moon. Patches of dirty snow filled the low areas of the pasture while dead yellow grass lay exposed where the sun had melted the glazed cover during the earlier daylight hours.
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