Poison Spring

by Boggs, Johnny D. ; Abell, Chris;

  “Shut up, I tell you!” Green yelled.

  “It was butchery.”

  I motioned at the man with the barefeet and worn pants. “Is that Hammond?” I remembered the big soldier who had been with Wilson when we first found them at the mill. But I knew it wasn’t Hammond; he had worn the uniform of a Yankee.

  “Hammond’s dead,” Greene said hoarsely. “Murdered. It was like the whole Secesh army turned crazy. Crazy for blood.”

  Everyone fell silent.

  Suddenly Edith called out my name, and I heard the pounding of hoofs.

  “Rebs!” Jared Greene cried out, and tried to grab his revolver.

  “It might be your own …” Edith began, but shouts came from up the lane.

  “Come on, First Kansas boys! Come on. Quits hidin’ from your masters!”

  Followed by Rebel yells.

  “Get out of here,” Sergeant Greene said, fumbling for his revolver. “Get out, Travis. We’ll take as many of them curs with us as we can.”

  I jerked the gun from his grip. It took no effort. “No,” I told him. “Hide.”

  He tried to resist, but Edith and even Baby Hugh rushed to help me.

  “I’m a soldier,” he said. “I’m a man. I’m ….”

  The bloody rag fell, and he passed out, which didn’t exactly make it easier for three kids to drag him into the shed. We dropped Greene onto the ground, didn’t even look at the man with the bare feet, then rushed back outside.

  “The bandage!” I pointed.

  The horses were rounding the bend.

  Edith ran over, didn’t falter a bit, picked up the bloody cloth, and threw the messy wad into the shed. I slammed the door behind me, grabbed the pistol, glanced at Edith.

  “Hide your hands,” I whispered. “Behind you!”

  She glanced at her hands, speckled with blood, and put them behind her back, backing closer to the mill. Baby Hugh looked at his own hands, but they were clean of any blood. I didn’t know about myself, and didn’t have time to do any checking, because four horsemen slid their lathered mounts to a stop near us. Two revolvers, a shotgun, and a massive Bowie knife were pointing at me, at Edith, at Baby Hugh.

  I kept Sergeant Greene’s revolver aimed at the ground.

  “What you young ’uns doin’ here?” The one who spoke wore a gray jacket and black hat, one side pinned up with an ostrich plume that look wilted. He held a massive Dragoon revolver in his right hand. A brown patch covered his left eye, with a white scar running down from the corner of the patch and carving a white ditch through his black beard.

  Next to him, the man with the shotgun wore a porkpie hat and the pants of a Union soldier. Beside him slouched a man whose cheeks bulged with chewing tobacco. He held the Bowie knife, which he was busy sheathing once he realized we were three children and not a regiment of enemy soldiers. The last one, on a fine black thoroughbred, eased the hammer down on his small revolver, and leaned forward, dropping his reins over the black’s neck, and rubbing the horse with his free hand. He didn’t holster the revolver, but he didn’t appear to want to kill us.

  “Put your cannon away, Dick,” he said. “They don’t look like Yanks to me.”

  “Skins the wrong color,” the one with the shotgun said, and spit.

  “But you will answer Dick’s question,” Thoroughbred said. It wasn’t a question, but an order. The man’s blond mustache was well-groomed, and his uniform might have been tailor-made. It looked fancier than the others’ clothes, even though wrinkled, dirty, and well-worn. Spectacles covered his eyes. As he straightened, he pushed back his wide-brimmed hat and said: “Well?”

  “This is our sawmill,” I said.

  Bowie Knife sniggered and spit again. “Gotta take your word for it.”

  “It is our mill!” Edith snapped. I cringed, not wanting any of those Rebels to pay much attention to her with those bloodstained hands behind her. “My papa built it and ….”

  “You misunderstand me, missy. Meanin’ I’m takin’ your word that this place is a sawmill.”

  Everyone except Thoroughbred laughed.

  “Papa’s Sergeant Connor Ford,” I told them, relieved when they all faced me again. “He’s with the Second Arkansas Cavalry.”

  “Is that so?” Eye Patch said. “Boy, I’d feel a mite better if you was to drop that Remington.”

  I glanced at the pistol, back at Eye Patch, then over at Thoroughbred, who nodded. The gun fell onto the carpet of pine needles.

  “Second Arkansas, eh?” Thoroughbred nodded his approval. “We’re with DeMorse’s Texans.”

  I nodded as if DeMorse meant something to me.

  “Do you know our papa?” Baby Hugh asked.

  “Can’t say I’ve made his acquaintance,” Thoroughbred said without glancing at my brother. He stared at me.

  “Where do y’all live?”

  “Down the road. Toward Washington. Couple of miles.”

  “What brung you here?” He grinned. “Curious about the fight yesterday?”

  I pointed at the fishing pole and worm can.

  “Man.” Bowie Knife smacked his lips. “A mess of catfish sure would hit the spot.”

  Ignoring him, Thoroughbred pointed the barrel of his revolver at the one I had dropped. “We heard a shot,” he said. “You fire it?”

  The lie came to me quickly. Never had I been one much to start with falsehoods, so I spoke rapidly and almost believed what I was telling him. “Yes, sir.” I grinned. “Found this in the woods right where our lane meets the pike. Never shot a pistol before. Almost”—I attempted a sheepish grin—“blew my head off.” I pointed at the hole in the rotting wall behind me.

  A few chuckles. I let out a short breath. Criminy, they believe me.

  Shotgun finally spoke. He was the only one who kept his weapon aimed at me. “You ain’t seen no colored boys ’round here, have you?”

  Another lie. Well, not really a lie. But it seemed natural. “Miss Mary had some slaves.” I pointed west. “She owned the plantation down ….”

  “Darkies in blue uniforms is what Hilly means,” Bowie Knife said, and spit again.

  “No, sir,” I said respectfully.

  “Be a right handy place to hide.” Eye Patch nodded, and swung off his blood bay mare. He shoved the revolver into his waistband.

  “We’re hunting for any Yanks from the First Kansas Colored,” Thoroughbred explained, “who turned tail and ran when the fighting got too hot for them yesterday.”

  “We heard the fight,” Baby Hugh said.

  “You should ’a’ seed it,” Bowie Knife said. Leaning back in his saddle, he shouted out: “Where be the First Kansas Charcoals now?”

  Shotgun answered, laughing as he said: “All cut to pieces and gone to …”—he stopped, bowed at Edith, and continued—“to the hot place run by Mister Lucifer hisself.”

  Eye Patch stopped beside me. He motioned toward the tool shed. “What’s that?”

  “Just a shed.”

  He looked at it, then at the Remington. He bent over, picked it up, shoved it next to the giant horse pistol in his pants. Then he climbed into the main building.

  “When did your pa join up?” he asked.

  “After Shiloh,” I answered.

  He jumped down, drew the Dragoon, and moved to his horse, shoving the pistol this time in a scabbard hanging from the horn. “This place went down that far in two short years?” Shaking his head, he climbed back into the saddle.

  “What do you expect, Dick?” Thoroughbred said. “The Confederacy has gone pretty far down in two years.”

  “We ain’t whupped yet.”

  “Not by the First Kansas Colored. No, sir. Not by them black-skinned sons-of- ….” Again he stopped, bowed toward Edith, saying: “My apologies for my salty language, missy.”

  “Ain’t no
body here, Capt’n,” Eye Patch said, “’ceptin’ these kids.”

  “I can see that, Dick.” Captain Thoroughbred nodded at me.

  “Can’t I keep the pistol?” I asked.

  Eye Patch chuckled. “Sure, boy. Just join up with us. Then you can shoot all the Yanks you find.”

  My lips flattened. Shotgun and Bowie Knife chuckled, and turned their horses. They were up the road before Thoroughbred and Eye Patch began to follow. Edith brought her hands in front of her, clasped as in prayer, but they quickly returned behind her back. Captain Thoroughbred came riding back toward us. He reined in, looked us over, then his eyes locked once more on me.

  “You say your pa’s with what outfit?”

  “Second Arkansas,” I managed to answer. “Slemons’ cavalry.”

  “And his name?”

  “Ford. Sergeant Connor Ford.”

  His head bobbed in acceptance. “Any word you want me to give him? In case I run across him.”

  Edith answered: “Tell him we love him.”

  “And miss him,” Baby Hugh said.

  His smile seemed older than he looked, and wearier than I felt.

  “I miss my family, too.” He turned the black, and disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty

  Scared, we waited in silence until we could no longer hear the horses of the Texians. Then, we waited some more, until, from inside the shed, Jeremiah Wilson called out in a plaintive voice: “Is they gone?”

  I think so, I thought, then realized I hadn’t answered him. I cleared my throat, told him, and slowly, unsteadily stepped toward the shed. This time Edith and Baby Hugh stuck right beside me.

  Sergeant Jared Greene hadn’t moved from where we had dropped—or rather dumped—his unconscious body.

  “Is he dead?” Baby Hugh asked.

  Edith answered: “No, but he’ll die if we don’t stop that bleeding.”

  “I packed it up good and tight with mud and the likes,” Wilson said. “Yesterday. When we got here. But it opened up again this morn.”

  I looked at Greene’s side. Blood flowed steadily out of a thin but wicked-looking gash, pooling underneath him.

  “Get a fire started.” I didn’t speak to anyone in particular, didn’t even think about what I was saying. I just knew.

  “With what?” Edith asked.

  With what? I looked at the shelves, saw the oil cans, but knew they were empty. With what? We hadn’t thought to bring matches, and nothing looked promising on the shelves or in the corner. I looked at Wilson.

  “Do you have matches?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Flint? Steel?”

  His head shook. “I ain’t got nothin’.” His hand came up to the bloody bandage on his head. “Ain’t even got no left ear no more.”

  I paid no mind to his troubles, just stared down at Jared Greene. His belt was gone. No haversack, either, and I couldn’t bring myself to go through his pockets.

  A weak voice called out. “Looks … in … my … poc—” said the bare-footed Negro lying in the corner.

  Down I went, turning, looking at the old man. I started to reach for the pocket of his patched trousers, but my hands stopped. I studied his tired face.

  “Mowbray?”

  The old man grinned. “Master Trav-is.” A gnarled finger tapped his trousers leg, pointing at the pocket. “Hurry … sir.”

  Seeing the protruding leather cord, I reached for it, tugged slightly, then harder, and finally a pouch came out. I could tell once I lifted it that it held flint, steel, even some bits of tinder to start.

  “Grab those sacks on the floor,” I told Edith and Hugh. “Rip them up. There’s some fat lighter on the other side of this building. I’ll get that.” Outside, I found the pitch pine, broke off a thin yellow sliver that smelled like coal oil. Moments later, between the shed and the mill, we put the burlap strips over some dried pine needles and pine cones, laid the tinder on top, and the pitch on it. I went to work striking steel and flint, watching the sparks. When they began to catch, Edith and Hugh knew exactly what to do. They blew short, even breaths, and the flames erupted. The strip of pitch quickly blazed to life. Wet as everything seemed to be, I worried that getting a fire burning hot enough would take forever, but the wood inside the sawmill was old, dry, a tinderbox.

  Little by little, my sister and brother added to the fire while I ran inside the mill, bringing out handfuls of sawdust that I had once planned to sell to Miss Mary for insulation. Then I went back, getting scraps of lumber. In a short while, the fire burned furiously.

  “What are you going to do?” Edith asked.

  I didn’t have time to answer. I went back into the shed, stepping over Sergeant Greene’s body, grabbing the old axe that leaned against cross-cut saws, shovels, wedges, rakes. The blade was rusty, but it would have to do. I turned to Wilson, asking: “Do you have a knife?”

  He had moved over to Jared Greene, trying to stop the flow of blood from his sergeant’s side with the wadded up sleeves from Jared’s shirt. Wilson’s head shook. Mowbray had drifted off into unconsciousness. I didn’t check Sergeant Greene. His saber would have worked fine, but he had no saber, no gun, and I didn’t know how much blood he had left in his body.

  Back outside, I kneeled between Edith and Baby Hugh, and laid the rusty blade on the edge of the flames.

  “What are you gonna do, Travis?” Baby Hugh asked.

  I bit my bottom lip. Somehow, the flames didn’t feel hot enough. I grabbed a nearby stick, began poking it. Sparks flew.

  “What if them soldiers smell the smoke?” Baby Hugh asked. “They might come back to in- … um, in-inves-ti-gate.”

  “We’ll tell them we plan to fry some fish we catch.” Which reminded me. “You better go to the pond.” I nodded first at him, then at Edith. “Both of you. Start fishing.”

  “But ….”

  Edith understood. She rose, took Baby Hugh’s hand, and led him away from the fire. They picked up the can of worms, their poles, and disappeared around the side of the sawmill.

  I added a few more scraps of wood onto the fire, pushed the axe blade in deeper, being careful not to burn the handle. The flames warmed my face, and I began sweating, only not because of the heat.

  “Son …!” Jeremiah Wilson called out from the shed. “You best hurry. Sergeant’s still bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

  I balanced on my knees, dried my palms on my pants legs, and took the hickory handle of the axe into my hands. It felt as if I were lifting one of those barrels full of sawdust. Somehow I managed to get to my feet, carefully avoiding the glowing hot blade, and went to the shed.

  I stepped through the doorway, eased onto my knees, and put the blade on the ground. The pool of blood sizzled. Jared Greene didn’t move. Nor did old Mowbray. But Jeremiah Wilson backed away quickly, dragging the bloody rag across the dirt floor. I almost threw up.

  “You needs to hurry,” Wilson said. “Whilst the blade’s still hot.”

  The blade inched closer to the gash in Greene’s side. My eyes squeezed shut. Then Wilson came beside me, and his hands gripped the handle above my own.

  “We’ll do it together,” he said.

  Together, we pushed. The blade went against the sergeant’s skin, and the sound, the stench of burning flesh caused me to tremble. Bile rose in my throat, and this time I couldn’t keep it down. I turned away, leaving the axe in Wilson’s hands, and managed to slip through the doorway, and violently, urgently retched. Empty, I wove a path inside the shed again.

  I stared at Sergeant Jared Greene, thinking about what we had just done.

  cau´ter-ize, v. t. … To burn or sear with fire or a hot iron, as morbid flesh.

  Morbid. That’s how I felt. Until Jeremiah Wilson glanced at me. He was sweating profusely, too. He was smiling, also.

  “You done good. We done g
ood.” He spoke softly, pointing at Greene’s side. “Bleedin’s stopped. Need some more rags, though, I reckons.”

  After wiping my mouth with my shirt sleeve, I pulled myself up. The axe lay on the ground. I reached up on the shelf, pulled down the cigar box. After pulling the box from the sack, I handed the burlap to Wilson, and slid the box back on the shelf. I didn’t bother to open it, just dropped onto my knees, and helped Wilson bathe the ugly wound.

  “You know where any moss is?” Wilson asked.

  “Moss?”

  “Yeah. My grandmammie used to say it’s good for infection. Sucks the p’ison out. Figured to put some on that wound. Just to be safe.”

  Outside, I found moss, brought it back, and we eased that onto the ugly wound on Greene’s side. He shuddered at our touch, moaned something.

  “He could use some water,” I whispered.

  Wilson said: “I could use somethin’ a mite stronger.”

  My smile was weak. “Me, too.”

  With a laugh, he bandaged the sergeant’s side, then moved over to Mowbray.

  The old slave’s left arm was broken, and not even set in a splint yet. His arms were slashed from briars, and there was a deep hole in his stomach from which blood and puss oozed.

  Wilson let out a long sigh. “I don’t reckons they’s much we can do for him.”

  “But ….” I stared down at the tired old man.

  “Gut shot.” Wilson’s head shook. “Miracle he’s lasted this long.”

  “Did he join up?”

  Wilson turned and stared at my question.

  “In the Army?” I explained. “The First Kansas?”

  “Nah. Told the capt’n he was a runaway slave. His back was all puckered up with scars from a whip. He went to the hospital, then come back, said he knowed this country well, would guide us through it. The capt’n, he said that was a right good idea. Poor ol’ man. Should ’a’ stayed with the rest of the contrabands.”

  I studied Mowbray’s tired face, then turned around, sank to the floor, leaned against the picket wall. “What happened?” I asked. “At Poison Spring?”

  Wilson sat beside me. “You heard. We tried to surrender. Rebs wouldn’t let us. Stuck a bayonet through old Hammond’s belly, but he didn’t die like no coward. No, sir. Last I seen of him, he was bitin’ and clawin’ and cussin’ and they was poundin’ him with the butts of their guns.” He stopped as if remembering. A tear rolled down his cheek, and he didn’t bother to wipe it away. “Ol’ Hammond,” he said softly. “Sure gonna miss him.”