by Irene Hunt
“What might yore name be, son?” he asked cheerfully.
“I’m Matt Creighton’s boy—name’s Jethro.”
Some of the men glanced at Dave Burdow, who started slightly at the name and stared at Jethro from small, deep-set eyes.
“Well, young Creighton, is yore pa in town with you today?” the first speaker asked casually after a short silence.
“No, sir, I brought the team in by myself.” Jethro cleared his throat self-consciously. “It wasn’t any trouble fer me at all,” he added.
Some of the men around the fire grinned broadly, and Jethro saw one of them wink at the man next to him. Dave Burdow did not grin; neither did another red-faced young man who had put his foot on the rung of a chair and now leaned forward a little, looking coldly at Jethro.
“Seein’ yore pa ain’t here to answer, I wonder if you’d be of a mind to tell us where yore brother Bill is these days? Some folks around here allows he’s down south shootin’ our boys alongside the Rebs. Is it yore understandin’ that that’s what he’s doin’?”
“We ain’t heered from Bill since he left,” Jethro answered. His eyes were wide in his thin face.
“Well, now, that’s a purty answer,” the man sneered. “Only trouble is that it don’t quite satisfy a lot of us.” He turned suddenly to look across the store at Burdow. “You know, Dave, Matt Creighton talked the boys into sparin’ Trav’s worthless hide a couple years ago. If Bill Creighton ever shows his face around these parts agin, maybe you’ll hev the chancet to talk us into sparin’ him.”
Burdow didn’t look at the man; he gathered up some bags of groceries and walked out of the store stiffly, almost as if he expected a blow in the back.
The editor struggled to get his crutches under his arms. “Another shot of whiskey, Wortman, and maybe you’ll have spunk enough to pick on someone who can fight back. You know that Burdow hasn’t a friend in the county, so you’re safe in giving him a kick. I might add that tormenting a young boy doesn’t take either courage or brains.”
Another man spoke up. “All right, Red, so the boy is jest a kid. I’m not fer tormentin’, but I’m ready to let him know that a lot of folks around here take it pretty dim that Bill Creighton hightailed it off to the Rebs.”
“Then let folks keep their quarrel with Bill. Matt has two or three sons in the Union Army. Why should he and his family suffer for Bill’s action?”
“If the editor of the county paper ain’t agin freedom of speech, could I jest put one more question to this young ’un?” Without waiting for a reply, the man called Wortman turned again to Jethro. “What I want to ask you is this: is yore pa good and down on Bill? Does he teach you yore brother is a skunk that deserves shootin’ fer goin’ aginst his country?”
Jethro felt a great weakness. He had to steady himself against the counter for a second, and when he spoke the words were the first ones that occurred to him.
“My pa don’t teach me one way or the other. He knows that I think more of my brother than anybody else in the world—no matter where he is. And that’s all I’ve got to say to you.” He looked directly at the man with an anger that dissipated his weakness.
Somebody clapped, and Guy Wortman’s face grew vicious. He took a step toward Jethro, but one of the men caught his arm.
“So he’s a great man, is he? Reb lover or not, he’s the best man you’ve ever knowed?” He spun furiously toward the man who held his arm. “What’s the matter with you, Ben Harris? You got a Copperhead streak in you too? Folks around here are so all-fired sure that Matt Creighton is a solid citizen—well, I ask you to notice that he’s not talkin’ down his ornery traitor of a son to young smart-aleck here.”
There was a whiteness around the editor’s mouth as he slapped a crumpled hat on his red head.
“There isn’t trouble enough in this country for you, is there, Guy? You’d better get out and do your patriotic duty—kick up some more mob violence. That’s your forte, you know; get in on any killing you can drum up, so long as your own hide is safe.”
Sam Gardiner, standing behind his counter, nodded at Milton’s words. His round face was troubled, and he cleared his throat several times before he spoke.
“I go along with what Red says, Guy; there ain’t any great big reason that I know of why you can’t jine up yoreself instead of loafin’ ’round drunk in my store.”
“Maybe you’d ought to keep that mouth of yorn shet a little tighter, Sam—you and Red Milton, both of you.” Guy Wortman stood glaring at the storekeeper a moment and then added, “I’m gittin’ out of yore store; I ain’t sayin’ what else I’m doin’, but I’m gittin’ out.”
“And I’m goin’ with you, Guy,” one of the men said, getting to his feet. He turned belligerently when he reached the door. “I got no use fer the thievin’ Burdows,” he said, as if a sudden idea had to be aired before he left, “but I’ll say this: Trav Burdow is a Union soldier. I don’t think you’d round up a mob so easy to go agin him if it was a matter between Trav and the Creightons this year.” He went outside then, close upon Wortman’s heels.
The editor stood facing the other men in the store with rage in his eyes. Sam Gardiner went over and laid his hand on Milton’s shoulder.
“Now calm down, Red; they ain’t neither one of‘em worth shootin’—you know that. They sure ain’t worth another one of them heart attacks of yorn.”
He turned then to Jethro, who stood beside the counter, his body hunched together as if in an effort to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
“I’m sorry that you’ve had to hear mean talk like this, son. It was bad, all around bad, but you done right to stand up fer yore brother. I might not like what Bill done, but I can’t help feelin’ you was right in standin’ up fer him.”
“Yes, sir.” Jethro nodded weakly and began gathering up his bundles.
“You starting for home soon, young Creighton?” That was the editor.
“Soon as I load up and git my team watered and fed.”
Milton threw himself forward between his crutches. “Come on, then. I’ll have one of the boys in my office look after your team. Let’s get these things put away in your wagon.”
Jethro was shaking inside when he walked out of the store into the pale sunlight. The editor drew a long breath as if he were very tired, but he smiled when Jethro looked up at him.
“I wanted a chance to get better acquainted with you, Creighton. I knew Bill a little; he and young Yale used to come in and talk to me sometimes when they came to town. I liked them.”
“They was good friends,” Jethro said quietly. “I was real close to both of’em.”
They carried his parcels down to the wagon and stored them in the wagon bed; fifteen minutes later they were back at the newspaper office, where a young man sat reading, his feet propped up on a table before him.
“Charley, I wonder if you’d do me the favor of taking this boy’s team down to the livery stable for water and feed. I’m asking him to have dinner with me.”
The young man got to his feet, grinning. “Sure, Red, glad to oblige. Hear you been blowin’ off at the mouth at some of the cracker-barrel heroes agin.”
Milton shrugged. “Word gets around fast.” “Ben Harris was in fer a minute.” The young man shook his head. “You jest ain’t goin’to be happy till you git dressed up in tar and feathers, are you, Red?”
“There are some people I don’t admire much, Charley.”
“I’ve learned that—by talkin’ with ye jest a little. Well,” he pulled on a jacket as he spoke, “where’s the team?”
“Hitched down in front of the restaurant. I count this a real favor you’re doing young Creighton and me, Charley.”
“Glad to help any friend of yours, Red.” Charley winked at Jethro in a friendly way and went out into the street.
Jethro glanced at the editor timidly. “I brought some dinner with me, Mr. Milton. You don’t need to go to the expense of buyin’ me a restaurant meal.”
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bsp; “I know. But I don’t like to eat alone, and anyway a boy who has made as long a trip as you have needs something warm in his stomach. Come on. Mrs. Hiles usually has apple pie for dessert.”
The restaurant was warm and clean, full of the fragrance of roasting meat, freshly baked wheat-flour bread, and strong, rich coffee. Jethro’s fears began to fade before the hunger he felt the minute they set foot inside the place. When a plump, pink-cheeked woman placed a plate heaped with meat and vegetables in front of him with a wedge of pie at one side, he couldn’t find it in his heart to be irritated at the fond hand she ran across his curls.
“All the Creightons has got looks,” she said, when the editor introduced Jethro. Then she slapped Milton on the shoulder and added amiably, “I allus said you ought to hev bin a fam’ly man, Red.”
“You’re a very astute woman, Lily, but like most of us, you have your blind spots. What sort of life would a family of mine have with the old man in hot water three-fourths of the time?”
She nodded caustically at that and stood surveying the two of them for a moment, her hands on her wide hips.
“I guess you got somethin’ there, Editor. Well, call me if yore appetites ain’t satisfied,” she added, walking away.
Ross Milton turned to Jethro. “Now then, young Creighton, what sort of boy are you? Can you read?”
Jethro’s voice held a slight edge. “Yes, sir, I kin. Shad left his books fer my sister and me. Right now I’m readin’ a history of the American Revolution.”
The editor nodded briefly. “Any heroes? Any particular man who interests you most?”
Jethro thought for a minute. “Maybe it’s because Shad told me so much about him—I don’t know—somehow the man that interests me most is Tom Paine.”
Milton’s face lighted with a big smile. “Really? The writer, the man of ideas? That’s good.” He stirred his coffee several times and seemed to be waiting. “Well, anything else?” he asked after a time.
“I’m beginnin’ to git the hang of the newspapers a little better. Me and my sister is readin’ ’em together—Shad wants us to.”
“Young Yale has quite a lot of influence with you, eh?”
“He was a real fine teacher.”
Milton nodded. “Well, you’re lucky to have had a teacher you really liked. I hated most of mine like poison when I was a boy; I think they returned the compliment, too. There was one though—old Doc Bailey—he had a wooden leg, and he used to storm around the schoolhouse like a mad elephant. Old Doc was all right, though; he was the first man who taught me to respect the King’s English.”
“You mean—he learned you how to talk good?”
“Well, he tried. At least he made me sensitive to a lot of the very bad English I heard all around me. When you have your skull thumped every time you say ‘fit’ for ‘fought’ and ‘heered’ for ’heard’ you become a bit more alert, Creighton; you even grow a little critical and want to thump some skulls yourself.”
Jethro was sober. “Shad kerrected us some, but I guess he had too many other things to learn us. I’d like to talk nice—the way you and him do,” he added.
The editor looked at him thoughtfully. “I wrote a little book a few years ago that might help you. When we go back to the office I’ll see if I can find a copy for you.”
Jethro’s eyes flashed with pleasure, but the editor held up a warning hand.
“Don’t get your hopes up too high. This isn’t a storybook or a history book, either. It’s dull, very dull. I warn you that you’ll have to dig to get anything out of it.” He smiled wryly as he spoke. “My effort was especially for Jasper County, but it didn’t exactly set Jasper on fire. In fact, it didn’t even raise a smoke, although a few people have profited by it. I think maybe you and your sister may get something out of it.”
Jethro flushed. He wished that he could find suitable words of appreciation, but he suddenly felt a great shyness about saying anything in the presence of this man who had actually written a book about correct speech.
They ate for a while in silence. Ross Milton was thoughtful, and Jethro was soon completely absorbed in the pleasure of oven-cooked food that seemed delicate and tempting in contrast to the coarse fare to which he was accustomed. He ate slowly, hoping that in days to come he’d be able to remember how good each mouthful had been. When he finally pushed his plate aside and attacked the apple pie, he wondered that anything so unspeakably delicious could ever have come his way.
“Enjoying your dinner?” the editor asked after a while.
“This dinner’s bin a real fine treat fer me, Mr. Milton.”
“That’s good.” Milton leaned forward in his chair a little, and Jethro had the impression that he was anxious about something. “You’re starting for home as soon as we’ve finished eating, aren’t you?”
“I allow to.”
Milton hesitated a little. “That man who caused the trouble in the store a while ago lives out west of Rose Hill—that’s on your road home, isn’t it?”
Jethro nodded. It had been pleasant to forget that affair in the store for a while.
“He’s quite capable of making trouble over this business of your brother. You must keep out of his way as much as possible.”
“I know. I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I. He loves violence—so long as there’s no danger in it for himself—the way he loves whiskey. He’d join a mob to murder his own grandmother.” The editor frowned as he tapped tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “I’m pretty sure that he can’t tear himself away from the saloon until late this afternoon, so I’d like to see you get started early. Do you have any more chores to do?”
“Nothin’ except to pick up a newspaper fer Mr. Roscoe.”
“All right. The St. Louis papers should be up from Olney by now. We’ll get one at my office.”
He motioned to Mrs. Hiles, and she came over to collect for their meals. She brought another wedge of pie, in a brown bag, and handed it to Jethro.
“This is fer you in case you don’t get home in time fer supper,” she said. “I took it as a real compliment the way you plowed into that first piece.”
At the newspaper office, Jethro picked up one of the papers while Ross Milton hunted for his book. A cartoon caught his eye; it showed an outraged McClellan falling head over heels from the top rung of a ladder marked “General-in-Chief” to a lower one labelled “Army of Potomac—Only,” while a stern-faced Lincoln stood close by and dusted his hands. Here was something to tell Pa; Matt’s anger against McClellan had been growing by the week. Jethro remembered Shad’s words when they had talked together only a few weeks before: “I would have guessed that McClellan was worth a dozen Grants.”
When the editor finally returned with the book, he extended it to Jethro with a grin.
“Here you are, Creighton; this book is yours if you can use it. We won’t expect miracles, but it might just happen that you’ll get some good from it.”
They shook hands, and Jethro felt good as he walked down the street to the hitching post, where the young man from the newspaper office had tied his team. When he was in the seat and ready to leave, he looked back. Ross Milton, standing between his crutches in the doorway, waved to him.
The team trotted briskly out of town, across the bridge spanning the river, and on up the road between meadows that seemed to have grown a little brighter since morning. The bag of coffee was at his feet; the wedge of pie, the book, and the newspaper were placed safely on the seat beside him. He thought with satisfaction of the things he would have to tell Jenny and his parents that evening. He pushed the scene at the store to the back of his mind, but the dinner with Ross Milton, the kindness of Mrs. Hiles, the gift of a book actually written by the editor himself—these were the tidbits with which the traveler could reward his family’s hours of waiting for his return.
He did not know how much he would tell about the ugly words of Guy Wortman and the others who were ready to believe that Matt Creighton was a Cop
perhead, because of Bill’s actions. It would worry his parents, Jethro knew.
They had heard of incidents downstate: a family murdered because they were suspected of being Southern sympathizers, an abolitionist family attacked in the middle of the night and their house fired by men who hated what their victims stood for. Southern Illinois was beginning to feel the tumult that had rocked Missouri. There was a tradition of a free state in Illinois, a tradition long since established with the opening of the Northwest Territory, but it was being challenged by thousands whose ties with the South were close and of long standing.
Jasper County was predominantly Northern in its sympathies, but there were many whose loyalty was secretly with the South or was suspected of being there. Now, the Creightons were one of those families—a Copperhead family whose youngest boy spoke up for a brother who had gone South. The ones who wanted to hate, the sullen ones with pigs’ eyes, and the angry ones who loved violence as they loved whiskey would not care to remember that Tom and Eb, and now John and Shad, were in the Union Army. A man in the store had said, “I don’t think you’d round up a mob so easy to go against him if it was a matter between Trav Burdow and the Creightons this year.”
At first the miles seemed to pass faster than they had on the trip into town, but for all that, Jethro began to grow tired after three hours or so had gone by. It had been a long time since four o’clock that morning when he had crawled out of bed at his father’s first call, and the excitement of the day, as well as its length, had taken toll of his energy. He found himself nodding a little now and then as the slow creak of the wheels invited sleep, and he had to shake himself briskly and to talk aloud for a while when the monotony became overpowering.
The sun was getting low by the time he reached the ruins of what had been the county’s first schoolhouse, a landmark known as the eight-mile point north of Newton. It was early twilight when he reached the Burdow place, where the wagon that Jethro had seen in front of the general store in Newton now stood in the cluttered barnlot.
Two dogs rushed out toward Jethro’s team, barking shrilly and snapping at the heels of the horses. A woman came to the door of the cabin and stood, half lost in the shadows, as she looked out at the passing wagon. By twilight the place seemed even grimmer than it had that morning.