Poison Spring

by Boggs, Johnny D. ; Abell, Chris;

  “I’m sorry it’s not hot,” Mama told him.

  “I’m in the cavalry, ma’am,” he said. “I’m used to cold coffee, but this … this is ….” He shook his head again. “It tastes fine. Mighty fine.”

  “We got it from a ….”

  In no uncertain terms, Mama told Hugh to shut up.

  “How’s Papa?” Edith sang out.

  Mama didn’t tell her to shut up.

  “He was well this morning, young lady. He has served the Confederacy and the state of Arkansas proudly. I wish we had more men of his mettle in our regiment.”

  “He hasn’t been …?” Mama began.

  He sipped coffee, then made himself smile again, but I doubted that he had felt any reason to feel joy in ages. It’s like I’ve said. His lips smiled. His eyes didn’t.

  “Well, we have all had ailments, especially of late, but no wounds, nothing grievous. Last I saw him. But ….” He handed the stein to Edith, and gripped the arms of Mama’s rocker. “Ma’am, we have many wounded soldiers. We could use some assistance.”

  Mama stepped back. “You don’t mean to bring your wounded here?” She shuddered. “It’s too small. I ….”

  Brodie’s head shook. “We have turned the Lee plantation into a field hospital, ma’am. And the Frederick farm down the road.” His brow knotted. “The latter was all but abandoned. No one, not even a field hand, working the place.”

  “Miss Mary,” Mama told him, “mistress of the plantation, died recently.” She didn’t tell him how.

  “I regret deeply to learn of her passing. Sergeant Ford spoke highly of her, as well. But, ma’am, the sergeant also mentioned … in passing only, Missus Ford … that you had training as a nurse.”

  Mama took two steps back as if she had been slapped. She blinked away her surprise. “Corporal,”—her head shook—“Corporal, I have tended a few sick neighbors, but I would not call it training.”

  “We could use your help, ma’am. The Confederacy could not pay you, but ….”

  “I have my children.”

  He gave us a mere glance. “They look old enough to fend for themselves, if only for a night and a day.”

  Corporal Brodie looked as if he might fall to his knees and beg, if he could have managed to stand back up. His lips trembled, and I thought he might burst into tears, but Mama reached over, patted a hand that tightly gripped the rocker’s arm.

  She whispered, but I couldn’t hear what she said. When her head moved back, I understood. She was going with the horse soldier. What else could she do?

  “You’re big boys and a big girl now,” Mama said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Speechless, we only nodded.

  “You can sleep downstairs if you want.” She was heading to the kitchen to pack whatever she thought she might need to treat wounded soldiers, leaving us alone with Brodie as he closed his eyes, rocked, and sipped cold coffee.

  “You know my papa?” Baby Hugh asked him.

  “Yes,” he said as if he were about to fall asleep.

  “Is he your boss?”

  Brodie grinned slightly. “He’s a sergeant, son. In the Confederate Army, in any army, the sergeants are everybody’s boss. Even generals bow to sergeants.”

  Before Baby Hugh could ask another question, Edith grabbed his arm and jerked him back. “Leave him be,” she warned.

  “He’s all right,” Brodie said. “I don’t mind. Got a brother your age. What’s your name, son?”

  “Hugh.”

  “My brother’s name is Charles. Four sisters between us. And an older brother, killed at Corinth.”

  “Did you whip the Yankees?” Baby Hugh asked.

  Brodie didn’t answer. He tried to push himself out of the rocking chair, but lacked the strength. Edith released her grip on Baby Hugh, and ran to help. I did, too, and we pulled the horse soldier up. He leaned against me, whispered a soft thanks. By that time, Mama was back and ready to leave.

  “How many wounded, Corporal?” she asked, tying a bonnet under her chin.

  “It’s not that many, ma’am. We won handily. Fewer than a hundred.” He staggered toward the door.

  A hundred wounded seemed like a lot to me.

  “And how many Union wounded?” Mama asked him.

  He stopped, gripping the doorjamb, and turned to face Mama. Those eyes became even duller. “Fewer, ma’am.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “Practically none at all.”

  “Bar the door,” Mama told us before she left. “Don’t let anyone in until I’m back. And straight to bed.”

  After that, Edith and I got the bar back into place, and we stared at each other. Alone.

  The horse snorted, someone climbed into the saddle, and we heard them leave. My imagination took over. I wondered whether they rode double, if Mama walked, or if the soldier let Mama ride—even though I’m sure soldiers didn’t ride side-saddle—and led the horse.

  “What if Papa comes?” Baby Hugh asked. “Could we let him in?”

  “Of course,” Edith told him. “Don’t be silly.” She looked at Mama’s bed, then headed up to the loft. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “Me, too.” I let her reach the loft first before I went up the ladder.

  “But,” Baby Hugh said, “Mama told us we could sleep in the big bed.”

  “It’s all yours!” I called down.

  Sitting on our beds, Edith and I waited, but not for long.

  “Wait!” Baby Hugh came up that ladder like a terror, knocking me over when he jumped onto me. Edith giggled, blew out the candle she had brought up with her, and pulled the covers over her head.

  “Good night,” I said, and tossed my brother onto his side of the bed.

  “Miss Mary …” he whispered. “She died in that bed.”

  “I know.”

  “I ain’t sleeping in it.”

  “Mama did.”

  “You reckon she was scared?”

  Edith was eavesdropping. “Mama? Scared? Ha!”

  “You don’t reckon her ghost is here, do you?”

  “There are no such things as ghosts,” Edith snapped. “Go to sleep.”

  “How about all them soldiers?”

  “What soldiers?” I asked.

  “At the battle today.”

  The wind moaned through the cabin, where cannon fire had knocked out the chinking.

  “Travis?”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “You reckon Papa’s all right?”

  “Of course. That corporal said they went to the rear.”

  “Because they was afraid?”

  “No. To protect the rear. From getting attacked there.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “Because ….”

  The wind moaned. I wished Edith hadn’t blown out that candle.

  “Because why?” I asked after a while.

  “Because it wouldn’t be right, would it?”

  Edith was still listening. “What wouldn’t be right?”

  “For Papa to have to fight Mister Greene.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  And eventually Hugh did. I, on the other hand, stared into the dark for the longest while.

  * * * * *

  Morning came, but Mama didn’t. The sky was overcast, another gloomy, gray day, and the grass was wet with dew.

  We went downstairs, and while Edith fixed breakfast—grits again—Baby Hugh and I did the chores.

  After breakfast, we left our Readers alone and went to the porch, staring down at the lane down which Mama did not come.

  “How long do you reckon she’ll be doctoring?” Baby Hugh asked.

  “Nurse,” Edith corrected. “She’s a nurse.”

  “Same difference.”

 
The idea hit me instantly. “Fishing. We should go fishing.”

  “But Mama said …” Baby Hugh began.

  “We were going fishing before the battle. We’ll leave a note saying we’ve gone to the millpond, just in case she comes home before we do. And if we get back first, we’ll have a mess of catfish fried up and waiting for her. She’ll love it.”

  “But the battle ….”

  I cut Edith off. “The battle, that soldier said, was at Poison Spring. That’s past Papa’s mill.”

  “It’s close enough.” She put her hands on her hips, just like Mama. “Really close.”

  “Do you want to come or not?” I could be just as stubborn.

  “I wanna,” Baby Hugh said.

  Edith didn’t like the idea, but she muttered something underneath her breath, picked up a fishing pole, and said: “You write the note.”

  Which I did. After that, we grabbed the other pole and the can of worms, and marched down the lane, picking up the pole Baby Hugh had dropped near the ditch yesterday morning. I quickly outdistanced my sister and brother, excited to be out of the house, heading to the mill, to fish, and … maybe … sneak into the tool shed. Baby Hugh and Edith lagged behind, but soon caught up with me.

  Something was wrong, but I didn’t realize it until later. There were no birds. This time of morning, birds should be singing, but a quietness filled the country. All we heard was the water flowing through the ditch, and the sucking sound our shoes made in the muddy path.

  Five hundred yards down the road, my excitement waned, and my pace slowed to a crawl. The Camden-Washington Pike was a bog, stinking of mud, stagnant water, and waste. We had seen the road like that before, of course, after the Confederates abandoned Camden, but never so much debris—caps and canteens, a bayonet stuck in the ground, haversacks, a busted musket, overcoats, even a brogan half sticking out of the mud, a filthy sock partly inside.

  And a body …. He lay facedown in the mud on the far side of the road, barefoot, duck trousers, a homespun shirt, his bloody back covered with flies.

  Edith gasped.

  Baby Hugh called out: “That ain’t Papa, is it?”

  “Papa wasn’t bald,” I told him.

  “We should … go … back … Travis,” Edith said.

  “It’s all … right.” I had to swallow down the bile rising in my throat. I moved ahead, slower though, never getting far ahead from my siblings.

  “Shouldn’t they have buried him?” Baby Hugh asked.

  Not trusting my mouth, or my stomach, I answered with a nod. A caisson lay on its side. Its axle had busted, and the soldiers, I assumed, had pushed it to the side, and turned it over. More clothing, more gear, but no more bodies.

  When we neared the turn-off to the Ford Family Mill, a coyote bolted out of the woods, crossed the road, and hurried into the far woods.

  “What was that he had in his mouth?” Baby Hugh asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. I didn’t want to know.

  With relief, we turned down the lane that led to Papa’s mill. By the time the mill came into view, I could breathe normally again, though I couldn’t shake the image of that dead Confederate soldier. Or the coyote.

  Still no birds sang, no frogs croaked, but a fish splashed in the pond, as if telling us we were expected. My mood improved.

  “Y’all go to that corner.” I pointed.

  “I’m not baiting my hook,” Edith informed me.

  “Me, neither,” Baby Hugh said.

  “All right. I’ll bait them all. Just go on.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the shed. There’s a sack we can use. I’ll meet you there.”

  “We’ll wait,” Edith said.

  “Great.” I leaned the pole against the main building, set the can of worms on the floor, went to the shed, opened the door, and screamed, ducking just in time as a bullet ripped over my head and knocked a chunk of wall out of the mill behind me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Over the ringing in my ears, and the pounding of my heart, Edith’s and Baby Hugh’s shouts reached me. So did a voice.

  “You blasted idiot! Give me that revolver!”

  My back against the door, I sat, shaking, legs stretched out in front of me. Edith and Baby Hugh started toward me, but I managed to get my muscles to work, and waved at them, telling them to: “Run! Hide!”

  A man stepped—no, he staggered—outside, tripping, landing on his side with a grunt. In his right hand he held a revolver, but not threateningly, more the way Mama had first gripped the Spiller and Burr when she stepped out to face the preacher and his group. The hand was bloody, but not from the two missing fingers.

  Catching my breath, I got a good look at the man as he managed to pull himself up. “Wait a minute!” I called out to my brother and sister, who had taken my advice, and were running deeper into the woods. “It’s … it’s … Sergeant Greene!” I yelled.

  He wore no blouse, only a ragged shirt, the side of which was drenched with blood. Greene had ripped off both shirt sleeves, using them to stanch the flow of blood, but, considering all the blood I saw, he hadn’t had much success. Sweat beaded his face, his jaw set tight against the pain. Another wound had cut across the left side of his head, just below where his hat would have rested, if he had worn a hat. His bare arms were scratched as if he’d been running through brambles and briars for an eternity.

  Smoke drifted out of the barrel of the revolver. He tried to grin at me, but couldn’t.

  “Sergeant ….” A timid voice came from inside the shed.

  “Shut up, Wilson. It’s young Travis Ford.”

  “I sorry ….”

  “You almost blew his head off, fool.”

  The pistol slipped from his hand. Jared Greene winced in pain.

  Slowly I managed to get to my knees, crawling over toward the freedman, glancing inside the shed to find Jeremiah Wilson cowering underneath the shelves, along with another man, this one barefoot and wearing ragged and patched gray trousers. A black man, too.

  Jeremiah Wilson grinned weakly at me. A bandage covered much of his head, the white cloth over his left ear blackened with blood. “Hey, boy,” he said, his voice trembling in fear. “I’m … uh … sorry?” The last word came out as a question.

  Without answering, I turned away, focused on Jared Greene. I kneeled beside him and reached for the cloth he pressed against his side, but his free hand, the one that had held the revolver, shot out and clamped onto my wrist.

  “What the Sam Hill are you doing here?” he asked.

  “We were going fishing.”

  He released his hold, and his hand fell beside the butt of the revolver. “Fishing.” He started to laugh, but coughed instead.

  By then, Edith and Baby Hugh had gathered around. To my surprise, and to their credit and courage, they didn’t gasp, didn’t cry, just stood there silently, holding hands.

  “What happened?” I managed to ask.

  “Had a bit of a scrap with the Rebs,” Jared Greene said weakly. “Hit us just down the road.”

  “We heard the battle,” Edith said.

  Baby Hugh added: “Cannon and all.”

  “Wish all I’d done was heard it.” Greene tried to slide up, but quickly gave up on moving at all.

  “For four hours,” Baby Hugh said.

  Greene nodded. “Four hours, eh? That all? Felt like forty.”

  “We give ’em what-for!” Jeremiah Wilson called out from the shed. “At first we did.”

  “Wasn’t much of a fight at first,” Greene said. “Till noon, I guess. Rebs hit us with cannon, hit us with everything they had. We just stood there, firing at each other. Giving them buck and ball. Thought we had ’em whipped.”

  “Then they hit us with cannon again!” Wilson called out.

 
“And after that, they hit us with the Twenty-Ninth Texas horse soldiers,” Greene said. “We’d fought them before. At Honey Creek about a year ago. Captured their colors in that one.” His head shook. Sweat must have stung his eyes. “Not this time.”

  Wilson said: “They called out to us … ‘You First Kansas darkies now will buck to the Twenty-Ninth Texas.’ And then … then ….” The soldier started to cry.

  Greene managed to sit up straighter, both hands clenched into tight fists. “Buck up, Wilson.” He swore savagely at the bawling soldier. “Don’t you cry, boy. Don’t you cry at all. Buck up, I say. Buck up!”

  “Yes,” Jeremiah Wilson sobbed. “Yes, Sergeant. I’m tryin’.”

  “Third, I don’t know, maybe fourth time they charged ….” Greene had to catch his breath. “That was it. Must’ve hit us with four brigades. It was like a thunderstorm. Only instead of raindrops, the air filled with Minié balls, grapeshot.”

  “Texians just screamin’ their heads off,” Wilson said. “Make a body lose his breakfast.”

  “Caught us in an enfilade.” Now the sergeant almost doubled over in pain.

  “What’s that mean?” I was glad Baby Hugh had asked.

  “Means murder,” Wilson said.

  “That’s about right.” Greene spit to his side. Just saliva. Not blood. “Shot down the whole line of us.” He sighed, and now it wasn’t just sweat rolling through the beard stubble but tears. “Then ….” He let out the most piteous wail.

  I reached over, grabbed his shoulder, tried to squeeze, but it didn’t help, didn’t stop Sergeant Jared Greene from crying.

  “Don’t cry, Sergeant,” Jeremiah Wilson said.

  Greene swore again. Swore, spit, clenched his teeth, shaking his head as if trying to make whatever it was that was hurting him so badly disappear like a bad dream. “Murderers!” he called out, cursing again. “Murdering Rebs.” Then he fell back, his breath ragged as he wiped away the tears, cursing himself.

  “We tried to give up,” Wilson said. “We tried ….”

  “Shut up!” Greene barked, but this time Jeremiah Wilson didn’t listen.

  “Throwed down our guns, raised our hands, some of us even fell to our knees and begged. Begged … begged the Rebs not to murder us.”