Papa. I could picture his face. I could hear his laugh. But I couldn’t remember his voice, what he sounded like.
Mama ended that memory, for which I was glad. “Mowbray was a good man,” she told Baby Hugh. “Still is a good man. Maybe he’s free now.”
“I hope so,” Edith said.
Maybe, I thought. He’d have to make it to Little Rock. Or perhaps not, if the Union Army kept marching south. Then I felt revulsion. I was a Southerner. My father was fighting with the Confederate cavalry, and here I was, wishing a runaway slave could find his freedom. I glared at my mother, silently cursing her Yankee blood for getting into my veins, my thoughts, but even I couldn’t hold such anger for long.
No, I wanted Mowbray away from crazy old Miss Mary and her vicious whip.
“Should we pray for old Mowbray, Mama?” Baby Hugh asked.
“Yes.” Firmness returned to Mama’s voice. Her face no longer looked so pale. “Yes. Yes, indeed.” Bowing her head, she began to pray. For Mowbray and Miss Mary. For Uncle Willard. For Papa. For Hugh, Edith, and Travis. For Washington County. For the United States of America and the Confederate States of America. For Reverend White. For all those poor families fleeing Camden. For President Lincoln and President Davis. At last, she got around to blessing the food and she closed with: “Bless this food to our use, and us to thy service, and make us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.”
Edith quickly added: “And God bless Mama, too.”
“Amen,” Baby Hugh and I chimed in.
When our heads raised, Mama’s smile brightened our moods.
“Thank you,” she said.
* * * * *
Life in southern Arkansas, of course, did not return to normal over the next day or two. I don’t think I even remembered what normal felt like, but things did get better. We went through our Readers, through the Bible, did our chores. The corn seemed to grow higher. Sometimes, I would even catch Mama humming—“Woodman, Spare That Tree” or “Amazing Grace.” For us kids, there were no more trips to the Camden-Washington Pike, merely because few people traveled it anymore. Miss Mary didn’t return, so on Thursday, April 14th, Mama decided to walk the five muddy miles to the plantation and see how our neighbor was doing. I guess she worried about Miss Mary. I guess, honestly, we all worried about her.
Yes, she had whipped her slave, a good man, always kind, but that had been in a fit of madness, and, like Mama said, the whole world seemed to be turning crazy. It was Miss Mary, after all, who had kept us in leftovers, and somehow she had understood something about me, about my love of books, the need to read, and she had bought me that writing tablet and those pencils. She knew my secret, too. I couldn’t hate her. No matter what she had done to Mowbray.
So, early that morning, right after breakfast, Mama left Edith, Baby Hugh, and me to our chores and studies. As soon as she was gone—I mean, I don’t think Mama could have cleared the doorsteps—Edith closed her Reader and said: “I have a plan.”
That was all the encouragement we needed to close our books.
“Mama loves coffee, right?”
Baby Hugh nodded, but I gave my twin the best skeptical look I could muster. First, nobody had coffee. Second, it was fifteen miles one way to Camden, and even if a store there remained open and actually had coffee for sale, we certainly couldn’t afford it. Probably not even if we robbed the Reverend White of his church collection plate.
“So we make some for her! For her birthday!” The words rushed out of Edith’s mouth. She practically giggled with excitement.
Birthday. I had already forgotten. Tomorrow was Mama’s birthday.
“Make coffee?” Baby Hugh said. “But we ain’t got no coffee to make for Mama.”
“I don’t think we have any coffee plants in our garden,” I said sarcastically. Which got me thinking: Does coffee grow on a plant, like corn, or under the ground, like a potato? Is it in a shell like a nut? Maybe in a tree like pecans? I wondered if there would be any information on it in Webster’s, and I was on my way to the table Papa had made where the giant dictionary always rested, when Edith spoke up.
“We don’t need a coffee tree,” Edith said.
That irritated me. I kept going. How did she know coffee grew on a tree? I hoped Webster’s would prove her wrong.
“Acorns,” she said. “Isn’t that what Uncle Willard said people were burning to make their own coffee?”
“Yeah.” I opened the dictionary. “Squirrels.”
“No, Travis,” Baby Hugh said. “I recollect now. Uncle Willard said that. Burning acorn or grain. That’s how folks is making coffee these days. Them that drinks it.” He made a sound like gagging. “Sounds horrible.”
“Coffee is horrible,” Edith said. “But Mama loves it.”
“I’d rather have Miss Mary’s cake,” Baby Hugh said. “You reckon Mama will bring some home with here after she’s visited Miss Mary?”
Edith scolded him for his lack of thoughtfulness, and, as if God were directing my fingers, I turned right to page 221, and found the word almost immediately.
cof´fee, n., [Fr. café; It. caffe; Sp. café; Port. id.; G. kaffee; D. koffy; Ar. cahuah, or cahoeh, which the Turks pronounce cahveh. This plant is said to be a native of Ethiopia.]
1. The berry of a tree belonging to the genus Coffea, growing in Arabia, Persia, and in other warm climates of Asia and America.
It does come from a tree! I slammed the book shut, started to my chair, but detoured to the door instead, opened it, and looked outside. Mama was gone. We were safe. I returned to my seat to listen to the rest of Edith’s plan.
Miss Know-It-All elaborated. “I don’t know where we would get grain. But I do know where we can find acorns.”
So did I, and despite my jealousy because Edith knew that coffee grew on trees before I did, I heard myself saying: “There is plenty of acorns down by Papa’s sawmill.”
“Right.” Edith clapped her hands.
“It’ll take Mama two hours to get to Miss Mary’s,” she said. “Then they’ll most likely visit a while. I dare say she won’t be back till this evening. By that time, we will have gone to the sawmill, gathered up plenty of acorns, roasted them or burned them in the skillet. I’m not sure how it’s done, but roasted in the oven or cooked on the skillet, it’ll be just like coffee.”
“Can I put them in the coffee grinder?” Baby Hugh asked. “When they’re done?”
“Of course.”
“And crank the handle.”
“Sure.” Her hands clapped again. “We’ll do it all together. It’ll be our birthday present to Mama. She deserves it.”
“Mama deserves better than burned acorns for coffee,” I said.
“Oh, Travis,” Edith said, “don’t be such a spoil-sport.”
I tried to think of an argument, but my mouth just hung open.
“I’d like to go to the mill,” Baby Hugh said. “I ain’t seen it in a coon’s age.”
“It’s not the same as you remember it, Hugh.” I sighed. Maybe the coffee would taste all right. Maybe we wouldn’t burn down the house trying to roast it. “Let’s go,” I said.
“We’ll need a sack to bring the coffee ….” Edith burst out laughing. “I mean the acorns. We need a sack.”
“There are plenty of sacks at the mill.” Already I had grabbed my hat.
Baby Hugh was out the door, ignoring Edith’s instructions to wear his brogans for such a long walk.
* * * * *
For once that spring, the skies turned clear, a perfect blue, nary a rain cloud to be seen. The weather had warmed, turned humid, and the air remained still. Of course, the road hadn’t dried out, but we ran along the grass between the road and the bar ditch.
Despite my vow to retire my pencil and writing tablet, and quit making up stories, I couldn’t help but imagine ….
* * * * *
After sailing to Persia, Musketeer Travis Ford races through the desert city of Cahua, accompanied by his trusted comrades, Ed and Hugo, searching for the great coffee tree that could save the life of Queen Anne of Austria. The dastardly cardinal had hired a master of poison to kill the queen, and bring France and England to war. The only cure for the slow-acting poison could be found in Cahua, so the musketeers had sailed to Persia. After many seafaring adventures, fighting pirates, and encountering a whale and a hurricane, they had reached the desert lands. Now, they had to find the beans from the world’s tallest coffee tree, get back on the boat, and back to France in time.
Travis Ford knew for certain that even this far from Paris, the cardinal was sure to have Arabian knights guarding the tree. There would be a fight.
He unsheathed his rapier.
He was ready.
* * * * *
“What are you doing with that stick?”
Sliding to a stop, I returned from Persia in 1625 to Arkansas in 1864. I tossed away the sapling I had snatched up during our sprint from home.
“Nothing,” I answered my sister. “We better hurry.” Past her and Baby Hugh, I sprinted down the lane that led to the Ford Family Mill.
The squirrels began chattering, leaping above us in the high limbs of the trees, as if they understood the reason we had arrived.
Edith stopped, staring aghast at the condition of the mill. On the other hand, Baby Hugh said—“Wow!”—and started for the building before Edith jerked him back with two hands.
“Aw,” Hugh cried, “come on, Edith. I ain’t no baby no more. Let me go inside and do some exploring.”
“There are no acorns inside,” she said sternly, and I didn’t bother to correct her, tell her about an oak that had fallen through the roof, one massive limb punching a hole through the floor toward the back of the building, with a passel of acorns just waiting to be turned into coffee.
“Y’all start picking up the acorns out here,” I said. “There are some burlap sacks in the tool shed. I’ll get them.”
In a matter of seconds, I had stepped into the shed, closing the door behind me. I withdrew Papa’s cigar case from its hiding place, and looked around, hoping to find a better place to keep it. I didn’t open the lid. Didn’t want to be tempted by the writing tablet and pencils. Looking up at the shelves, I saw three oil cans on the top shelf, used to keep the machinery from rusting. I stepped on a keg of nails, reached up, and pulled the cans down, putting them on the shelf below.
“What’s keeping you, Travis?” Edith called out.
“I’m coming. Hold your horses.”
I slid Papa’s cigar box to the top shelf, and started to put the cans on top of it, but then I thought about the top of it—the minstrel singing to the lady, the beauty of the scene, the painstaking detail, the time it must have taken Papa to make it. So down came the box, and back it went inside the burlap.
“Travis!” Edith screamed.
“In a minute!” I yelled back.
After I had slid the covered box back onto the top shelf, I put the oil cans on top of it, hoping the sack would protect the top, but that didn’t seem enough. Again, I removed the cans. Finding some old rags and some pine needles, I covered the sack, figuring that the sack, the pine needles, and the rags would protect Papa’s cigar box from any leaking oil. Besides, after shaking one of the cans, I knew there wasn’t any oil inside them.
I jumped down, decided that two sacks would hold plenty of acorns to turn into coffee for our mother, and grabbed them from the shelf.
“Here I come!” I called as I opened the door and stepped out of the shed.
Two long, sharp bayonets greeted me, almost running me through.
The burlap sacks dropped to the ground.
Urine dripped down the inside of my left leg.
Chapter Eleven
Gasping in shock, I sucked in my stomach to keep from getting ripped by those long bayonets. It took every effort of willpower I had not to scream, and I prayed no one noticed how I had wet my pants—thankfully I hadn’t had much to drink for breakfast.
“What you doin’ in there, kid?” one of the soldiers asked.
I could only stare.
The one who had asked didn’t appear much older than me. In fact, I stood an inch or two taller. He wore trousers the color of the sky, and an unbuttoned coat darker than a thunderhead, with brass buttons. His hat was what we called a bummer cap, navy blue. The brogans and belt were black, and the neckerchief around his collarless red-and-white checked shirt featured pink polka dots. His eyes were brown, nose flat, lips tight, head clean shaven. His skin was ebony, with freckles across his nose and cheeks. The musket with the bayonet seemed huge.
The soldier standing next to him was older and much taller, with dark beard stubble on his chin, and his cap secured with a blue silk scarf tied under his chin. He was just as black.
“I asked you a question,” the first one said. I backed away from his bayonet and up against the shed’s picket wall.
“Easy, Jeremiah,” the older one said. “He ain’t no bigger’n a corn nubbin.” He grinned at me, then eased the bayonet away from my gut. “But I dare say he be bigger’n you.”
“Shut your trap, Hammond. You talk too much for a runaway slave.” To me, the small Negro said: “Get them hands of your’n up. Up, I say. I ain’t kilt no Johnny Reb in three hours.”
“You ain’t killed nothin’ ’ceptin’ skeeters and flies, Jeremiah, durin’ the two years we been in this man’s army.”
“Shut up, I say. And I’m tellin’ you, up with ’em hands, boy.”
Obliging him, I then looked around. Edith sat on the ground, Baby Hugh in her lap, hugging her in fear. Six or eight black soldiers formed a semicircle around them, but no bayonets were threatening them, although every one of the men carried a musket, and every musket had a bayonet affixed to the long barrel. Other soldiers were inside the mill, talking, laughing, although I could only catch snatches of what they were saying. Some had accents so thick, so foreign, I could never have guessed what they were saying.
How could I not have heard them arrive? I kept thinking to myself. Why hadn’t I detected the fear when Edith had shouted my name?
“I asked you,” the small soldier said again, “what was you doin’ in there?” He tilted his head at the larger man, who stepped around me and opened the door to the tool shed.
My mouth refused to work. The little soldier grew angrier. “Boy, iffen you don’t answers me, I’ll spill your guts on the ground here. And whilst you’s bleedin’ to death, me and Hammond’s gonna fill your belly with stones and sinks you in that millpond. Catfish’ll be suppin’ on you for a month of Sundays.”
The door closed behind me. “Ain’t nothing in there, Jeremiah. Just tools and cans and rags and such. Tool shed.”
“No whiskey in there?” Jeremiah was talking to me.
My head shook.
“Boy, you ain’t pullin’ no cork?”
Again I shook my head.
The one named Hammond leaned in front of my face and drew a long breath. “Naw,” he said, straightening and facing Jeremiah. “He don’t smell like no John Barleycorn. He smells like ….” He faced me again, looked at my dark stained trousers. I shifted my legs. He walked back beside Jeremiah. “Smells like nothin’ is all.”
Jeremiah pulled away his musket, and let loose with a drawn-out curse. “He’s a Reb.”
“Ain’t in no uniform,” Hammond pointed out.
“Most of ’em ain’t been of late.”
“Yeah.” With a snort, Hammond hooked his thumb toward Baby Hugh and Edith. “But none of ’em’s been enlistin’ snot-nosed young ’uns. And none of ’em’s been marchin’ with little girls.”
“Well,” Jeremiah said, studying me, “what you chil’ren doin’ here?”
; Another colored soldier stuck his head out of the mill. “They ain’t cuttin’ no lumber, Jeremiah. That’s certain sure.”
“I’m interrogatin’ the prisoner,” Jeremiah said.
Hammond chuckled. “You ain’t gettin’ much out of ’im.”
“On account that he’s likely deaf and dumb. Like most white folks in Arkansas. That it, boy? You deaf and dumb?”
My head could only shake, which got all of the soldiers who had started to gather around the tool shed to chuckle. Again I looked around. I didn’t see a white face among them, and I recalled the fear in that woman’s voice back in Mr. Mendenhall’s bookstore. I could hear Mrs. Andersen’s voice echoing in my head: I’ve heard that the Yankees have darkies fighting for them. Darkies! I am a white woman, a widow living alone. I fear for my very life.
“Should we torch this place?” a soldier asked from inside the mill.
The breath caught in my throat.
“We’ll ask the capt’n,” Jeremiah said, before he looked around. “Though iffen you was to ask me, that would be the waste of a match.”
Hoofs could be heard clopping down the lane.
“Well, it ain’t the capt’n, but here comes Lieutenant Bullis and Sergeant Greene!” another soldier called out.
“Step away from those white children there, men!” a voice called out, and the soldiers backed away from Edith and Baby Hugh. Even Jeremiah backed up some from me, butting the musket on the ground.
“Hey, Sergeant!” Hammond called out. “We’s catched us a quiet one over here.”
“A Reb?” another voice boomed.
Hammond loosened the scarf under his chin. “Don’t rightly know, Sergeant. Ain’t in uniform. And he’s armed with …”—he looked at the burlap I had dropped—“sacks.”
The black soldiers laughed.
The lieutenant was a white man. He had dismounted and was kneeling in front of Edith and Baby Hugh. He reached inside his tunic, brought out a brown paper sack, and offered it to them. Edith just stared, but Baby Hugh reached inside, found something, and stuck it in his mouth. The lieutenant pushed back the brim of his black hat and spoke, but I couldn’t hear what he asked.
Poison Spring Page 9