Poison Spring

by Boggs, Johnny D. ; Abell, Chris;

  “So why did you leave?” I hated myself for asking the question, which just came out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  “The State of Arkansas made me.”

  We walked.

  “Made every freedman in Arkansas leave.”

  “Why?” Edith asked.

  “Well, after the Supreme Court ruled on Dred Scott, a law was passed in Little Rock. The law said every freedman had to get out of Arkansas. Get out by January of 1860 or become a slave.”

  “You might could’ve joined up with me in Dardanelle, Sergeant,” Hammond said. “We’d ’a’ took good care of you. The boss lady didn’t whup her slaves too much, lessen she got riled.”

  I pictured Miss Mary Frederick. I imagined her whipping old Mowbray with her buggy whip.

  “Might could have,” Greene said. “But I told these young ’uns’ pap goodbye, headed to Lawrence, Kansas.”

  “You run into any trouble along the way, Sergeant?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Man of color on a mule in this state? Riding north? Yeah, I dare say I had some little trouble. Got questioned a lot. Had to show my papers, which didn’t help with the white folks who couldn’t read. Some boys … might have been in Yell County, Hammond … wanted to see me die of hemp fever. Had to persuade them otherwise.”

  “I can imagine how,” Hammond said.

  “I can’t. Lieutenant Bullis, he always says I ain’t got no imagination. So tell us how,” Jeremiah said.

  “Some other time.”

  We walked.

  “But you made it to Kansas,” Hammond said, to prompt Greene.

  “I made it to Kansas.” Greene nodded. “Settled in Lawrence. Good city. Fine place.” He spit. “Or was.” His voice was soft, but laced with bitterness. “Till Quantrill showed up with his bushwhackers back in August.”

  “But now Mister Lincoln’s showing them Rebs,” Hammond said. “He bringin’ all us colored folks the jubilee.”

  “I hope so,” Greene said, and turned to me. “Even before Dred Scott.” His eyes showed no animosity. In fact, he was still smiling. “Even before all of that, I was free, but only on the paper I had. I owned my place. Paid taxes to Washington County. But I couldn’t vote. Had no rights whatsoever. Guess I wasn’t a citizen, even before the United States Supreme Court said so.”

  “Mister Lincoln’s changin’ all that!” Hammond shouted.

  “Maybe.” Greene didn’t sound convinced.

  “So that’s what we’s fightin’ for!” Jeremiah called out. “Our freedom. Freedom for us. For our families. For all us darkies. What’s your daddy fightin’ for, chil’ren?”

  “That’s enough, Wilson,” Sergeant Greene said.

  “But ….”

  “You heard me.”

  The rest of our hike was filled with silence. Until Greene yelled to Hammond: “See that lane off to the left?”

  “Yes, Sarge. That’s the one we taken when we was ….”

  “Let’s take it again.” The big sergeant grinned. “That’s where the Fords live.” He pointed down the road. “My place, just a little shanty, was a few miles down the Pike. It’s gone now. Land cleared, shanty torn down, cotton field in its place. Miss Mary’s cotton. I was Miss Mary Frederick’s neighbor.”

  “She’s a real good neighbor. Brings us leftovers,” Baby Hugh sang out. “Cakes sometimes. And cookies. And pies.”

  Greene grinned. “That’s funny. She never brought me anything.”

  * * * * *

  Lifting the hems of her skirt as she ran toward us, Mama met us halfway down the lane, her eyes filled with panic. She slid to a stop a good many yards before us, gasping, bringing up a hand to cover her mouth, before she yelled out our names and continued her sprint.

  “Go on,” Greene said. “Run to your ma. She must be worried sick.”

  Baby Hugh didn’t need any more encouragement. He dashed past Hammond, and Edith was just behind him. Being the oldest boy, of course, I didn’t want the Yankees to see me run, so I just walked. Kind of fast. Mama was squeezing Edith and Hugh hard, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. I hurried to her, felt her strong arms wrap around me, and pull me close.

  “I was so worried,” she said.

  “We was just … at the … mill,” Baby Hugh managed.

  “What in heaven’s name were you doing there?” She didn’t let us answer. She swallowed, sniffed, wiped the tears off her cheek, and slowly rose, keeping her hands on Baby Hugh’s shoulders, motioning Edith and me to step behind her. Edith did. I just turned around to face the three black Yankees.

  Hammond, Greene, and Wilson walked slowly toward us, the two runaway slaves shouldering their muskets, and Sergeant Greene holding his hat in his hands.

  “Miz Anna,” Greene said.

  I looked at Mama. She blinked, her lips parted, and in that instant I saw recognition light up her face.

  “Jared?” She released her hold on Baby Hugh. “Jared Greene? Is that you?”

  “In the flesh, Miz Anna.”

  She walked up the lane, leaving us kids behind, Holding out her right hand. “It’s been a long time, Jared.”

  They shook hands.

  “Yes, ma’am. Lot of water under the bridge.”

  * * * * *

  “I came home,” Mama explained. “Ran home. Some of Miss Mary’s …”—she hesitated—“some of her … workers … ran into the house, saying Yankees were on the road. Marching to Camden.” She shook her head, wiped her forehead. “When I got to the Pike, I saw many, many soldiers in blue. They were maybe two miles away, so I just ran for home.”

  “That’d be General Thayer with his main force, ma’am,” Sergeant Greene said.

  “The Frontier Division,” Hammond said with pride. “We’s part of that.”

  We were sitting on the porch in front of the sleeping cabin—Mama in the rocking chair, Edith and I on the bench. Baby Hugh sat with his feet dangling over the porch while Sergeant Greene was perched on an overturned keg in front of Mama, and Hammond and Wilson were on the steps.

  “I don’t think I slowed down all the way here,” Mama said. She still patted her forehead and cheeks with a handkerchief. “I’m not sure my feet even touched the ground. And when I got home”—she looked at Edith and me—“and you weren’t here ….”

  “We’re sorry, Mama,” Baby Hugh said. “We just went to get some acorns.”

  “Hugh!” Edith and I shouted.

  “Acorns?” Mama lowered the handkerchief. She locked her gaze on Edith, then me, then Hugh, then turned to Sergeant Greene. “Anyway,” she said after a long while, “I got here and found the doors open, all of the chickens gone ….”

  “The chickens!” I glared at Sergeant Greene.

  “Reckon the boys liberated ’em,” Jeremiah offered, and laughed.

  I wanted to punch him in the nose.

  “Did y’all forage our cow, too?” Edith asked, her voice as bitter as mine.

  “No,” Mama said. “Lucy’s still in the barn.”

  “Sorry about those chickens, Miz Anna,” Sergeant Greene said.

  “Oh, I don’t care about the chickens,” Mama said. “As long as my children are safe.”

  “You Yankees are nothing but thieves,” I snapped.

  “Travis,” Mama said.

  But if Mama’s Abolitionist got up, so did my Rebel. “You don’t see the Confederates robbing po—” I couldn’t bring myself to say we were poor. Not in front of those black Yanks. “Not robbing people like us. Citizens.”

  “Travis!” Mama’s tone told me to close my mouth, and I did, though I still seethed.

  “I recall Confederate foragers here not long ago,” Mama said, “who would have made off with our cow, our chickens, and left our well poisoned with the bloating carcasses of two dead dogs.”

  “Mama!” Edit
h made a face.

  A smug smirk came upon Jared Greene’s face. “It’s been this way, Miz Anna,” the sergeant said. “We’ve been on half rations for three weeks now … since we marched out of Fort Smith. Some of the men are hungry.”

  So are we, I almost said aloud, but didn’t want to make Mama angrier.

  Mama gave an understanding nod.

  “And them Reb bushwhackers been tormentin’ us all the while,” Hammond added.

  “Bet we lost a man ever’ day,” Jeremiah added.

  Sergeant Greene cleared his throat to get his men to either change the subject or just stop talking.

  “Anyway,” Greene said at last, “if General Thayer’s coming down the Pike, we should be on our way.” As he stood, he motioned for Jeremiah and Hammond to rise. They did, slowly removing their hats, bowing politely at Mama and Edith.

  “We thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” Hammond said.

  “I didn’t ….” Mama shot up. “My goodness. I didn’t offer you water, or something to ….”

  “Don’t fret, Miz Anna.” The sergeant had slipped the haversack off his back. He reached inside and withdrew a sack, handing it to Mama.

  “It’s not much,” he said, “but the young ’uns tell me your birthday’s tomorrow. So this is from your children. With the compliments of the First Kansas Colored Volunteers.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It had been a long time since that smell had greeted me in the kitchen. I never drank coffee, but I had to admit that the aroma, even Yankee coffee, was pleasing.

  Papa had always bragged on Mama’s special way of making coffee. Usually she wrapped the ground beans in a handkerchief that she then submerged in the pot of water into which she had already poured honey and some cubes of sugar. On that April morning, however, since she didn’t know when she’d ever get coffee again—and what Sergeant Greene had given her hadn’t been much—she mixed the coffee with a spoonful of cornmeal she had toasted. There was no sugar. No honey, either. She also couldn’t float an egg shell in the pot—which kept the grounds at the bottom—because, thanks to those Yankees, we had no eggs.

  Mama breathed in the scent, and said, “Ahhhhh,” just like Baby Hugh would when Miss Mary had brought over leftovers.

  Mama could drink coffee every day, morning, noon, and night. In fact, back when we had coffee—in that epoch when most people could afford it and every store had some on the shelves—she did drink it throughout the day. Papa never drank it after breakfast.

  After pouring her first brew since what must have seemed like forever from the pot into a cup, Mama sipped, smiled, and settled into the chair.

  “How does it taste?” Edith asked.

  “Delicious,” Mama answered. “And it didn’t cost sixty dollars a pound.” She drank some more before slowly setting the cup on the table. “Now what was all that about acorns?”

  While Edith and I stared at each other, Baby Hugh told Mama everything. My face flushed, but Mama smiled at us warmly.

  “That was very sweet of you,” she said. “I bet acorn coffee would have been fabulous. I’ve heard from other women in church how they’ve been making coffee. Burning sugar. Even chopping up sweet potatoes, cane seeds, persimmon seeds. I just didn’t see myself trying something like that.”

  Besides, I knew we didn’t exactly have an abundance of sugar or sweet potatoes, sugar cane or persimmons, either.

  “But,” Mama said, “when Jared’s coffee runs out, maybe we shall try acorn coffee. It sounds intriguing.”

  “If,” Edith grinned, “you’re a squirrel.”

  It had been a long time since we had heard Mama laugh. I mean really laugh. Of course, my conniving twin had stolen the joke I had made when she first suggested that stupid idea of acorn coffee. And those First Kansas colored soldiers had made similar jokes. I ground my teeth and clenched my fists.

  “When do you reckon the Yankees will get to Camden?” Baby Hugh asked.

  “Tomorrow,” Mama said after a moment’s thought. “Most likely.”

  “Will there be a fight?” he asked.

  That brat sure seemed bent on spoiling Mama’s good mood.

  “I don’t know.” Mama brought the cup to her lips. “General Price’s army has gone. I don’t know.”

  I decided to change the subject. “How’s Miss Mary?” As soon as those words left my mouth, I knew I hadn’t changed anything. Maybe I had made things worse.

  “She was fine.” Mama sighed. She finished her coffee, and stood, starting for the pot in the fireplace, then stopping, putting the empty cup in the sink, and returning to the table. “I think I’ll just save the rest of that coffee for breakfast tomorrow. It’ll be stronger then.”

  Edith said cheerily: “Papa used to say you liked your coffee strong enough to float a stern-wheeler’s anchor.”

  She started laughing again, her face bright, eyes dancing. “Yes. Yes, and I would tell Connor that he liked a tablespoon of coffee with his water.”

  We grinned, until Baby Hugh reminded Mama: “You were talking about Miss Mary.”

  Again I cringed. So did Edith.

  “Yes.” Mama pushed her bangs off her forehead. “She was fine. I don’t think she even remembered coming to our house, or beating poor Mowbray with that whip. When her field hands came running inside, saying the Yankees were coming, the Yankees were coming, I left. Just ran home.”

  * * * * *

  Mama’s birthday came without cake, even without much food, thanks to those First Kansas Yankees. But, at least, Mama had coffee. Still in a good mood, she asked us to sing to her, so we gathered on the porch, and serenaded her with “The Blue-Tail Fly,” “Listen to the Mockingbird,” and a fairly new song Edith had learned from some of her girlfriends at church, “The Southern Soldier Boy.”

  The way Edith told it, the hero of the song was supposed to be named Bob Roebuck. But we changed it. Changed the girl’s name, too. For Mama. And for ourselves.

  Edith would sing a line, then we would repeat it.

  Connor Ford is my sweetheart’s name.

  He’s off to the wars and gone.

  He’s fighting for his Anna dear.

  His sword is buckled on.

  He’s fighting for his own true love.

  His foes he does defy.

  He is the darling of my heart.

  My Southern soldier boy.

  But when we got to the next verse, Edith stopped when she hit the part—“Oh, if in battle he was slain.” We all abruptly quit singing, and the silence grew heavier than Mama’s coffee.

  “Well,” Mama said, refusing to have anything put a damper on her birthday. “How about if we sing …?”

  “‘Old Dan Tucker’!” Baby Hugh shouted.

  It was his favorite song. Mama couldn’t stand it, but she nodded and said cheerily: “Yes. Yes. That is a lively tune. Sing it, Hugh.”

  Yet before Baby Hugh could begin, we heard someone calling. Baby Hugh dropped to the ground, and ran toward the lane to see who was coming. Mama called out for him to stop, but, Hugh, being Hugh, ignored her. He was pointing and jumping up and down before he tore a path down the lane. “It’s Miss Mary!” he yelled. “It’s Miss Mary!”

  She didn’t drive her carriage like a crazy lady. Not this time. She had walked the five miles to our home, and she looked as if she hadn’t slept forever.

  Edith and I helped her up the steps, while Baby Hugh stood there pouting, kicking at the dirt, complaining that Miss Mary hadn’t brought anything to eat.

  Mama ended that in a hurry. “Hugh,” she said, and my kid brother’s doldrums ended immediately.

  “I’m sorry ….”

  “You get inside, young man. Now! You open your Reader and you bury your nose in that book, and you sit there, and you don’t say a word. Not one word. Now, mister. Now!”

 
; He vanished. Served him right.

  “Edith,”—Mama was easing Miss Mary into the rocker—“pour a cup of coffee for Miss Mary. Bring it out here. Quickly.”

  “But Miss Mary doesn’t like coffee,” Edith said, and, quickly realizing her error, muttered: “I’ll get it, Mama. I’ll bring it right out.” She hurried into the dogtrot and to the kitchen.

  I dragged the keg over, and Mama lifted Miss Mary’s legs, and rested them atop the oaken top. Mama found her handkerchief, wiped Miss Mary’s sweaty face.

  Her dress was unbuttoned, dirty. No, not dirty. It looked filthy. Even Hugh’s bare feet didn’t look so bad. One shoe was unbuttoned, the other caked with mud. She shook her head, her eyes blinking rapidly. Edith ran back through the dogtrot, and held the cup out to Mama.

  Leaning, Mama brought the tin cup to Miss Mary’s pale lips, encouraging her to drink. She did, and she didn’t even complain that she didn’t like coffee, especially when it was Mama’s strong and thick tar-like brew.

  “They’re all gone,” Miss Mary managed to get out, then she drank more coffee, but the cup slipped and the liquid spilled, dripping through the spaces between the planks. “All gone,” she whispered, leaning forward and crying. Mama clutched Miss Mary’s dirty hands. Tears streamed down Miss Mary’s face, and her head shook. “All gone!” she wailed. “Every last one of them.”

  Edith and I exchanged looks, but we didn’t know what Miss Mary was talking about.

  “I treated all of ’em fine. Just fine. Sallie … my Sallie had been with me since Daddy was alive.”

  I mouthed to Edith: “Her slaves.”

  My sister nodded in understanding.

  “The Yankees come. They come up yesterday. Bold as brass, the vermin.”

  “I was there, Mary,” Mama said gently. “Remember?”

  Her face was a blank. “No.” She pulled her hands from Mama’s grip, shaking her head. “No. I don’t remember. I can hardly remember a thing. Not anymore.”

  “Your slaves spotted them,” Mama reminded her. “I ran back home. They hadn’t arrived when I left. Did they mistreat you, Mary? Did they …?”

  “They left,” Miss Mary cried. “Even Sallie. They just walked behind the soldiers.”