Poison Spring

by Boggs, Johnny D. ; Abell, Chris;

  “So you ran here?” I prodded.

  His head nodded slightly. “Sergeant Greene knowed it was a good place. Knowed how to find it in the woods. They was six of us when we run, after we knowed it wasn’t no use to surrender, that they’d just cut us down, and they was too many for us to fights. That slave yonder, ol’ Mowbray, he got shot, and Sergeant Greene just picked him up. He’d already been slashed by a saber. The sergeant, I mean. I feared it would spill his insides out, but he just wouldn’t die. Sergeant Greene … he can’t die …. Well, he picks up Mowbray, and we’s into the woods.”

  “Six of you?”

  “Six in the First Kansas Colored. Plus him.” He tilted his head toward Mowbray. “Rebs kilt four. Don’t exactly knows how we made it this far.”

  He had talked himself silent. For the next several moments, we just sat, exhausted, both of us crying, and not caring who saw our tears.

  Another face popped into my mind. “What about Lieutenant Bullis?” I asked.

  Wilson’s head shook. “He’s dead, too. Grapeshot cut him in half. I seed it. Ugly thing to seed. But he died in battle, the lieutenant did. Died game. Died fightin’. He wasn’t murdered. Like most of us.”

  Silence again.

  A bird began to sing. Maybe things were returning to normal. No, I thought to myself, things will never be normal again.

  A fish splashed in the millpond, and Wilson looked through the open door. “Reckon your sis or brother just catched somethin’?”

  I doubted it. I didn’t think that either would have baited their hooks.

  “Y’all brings anythings to eat?”

  My head shook. We hadn’t planned that far ahead. “I’m thirsty.”

  Wilson had no canteen, but I’d seen some cans scattered about inside the sawmill—if only they could hold water.

  “I’ll be back,” I said, and left the shed.

  First, I gathered the cans, then followed the path that stretched alongside the pond. At the corner, I found Edith and Baby Hugh. To my surprise, not only had they baited their own hooks, they had managed to pull in a mess of bream. Baby Hugh tugged the sack out of the shallows, and held it, dripping, for me to inspect.

  Granted, Papa would have had a cow had he seen the size of some of those fish. “Too small to keep,” he would have admonished. “Throw it back and we’ll catch him when he’s grown up.” Others, however, were the size of Papa’s hand. “That’s a good-eating fish,” he would have said.

  Edith grinned. “I caught the biggest.”

  “Did not,” Baby Hugh said.

  “Did, too.”

  “Not.”

  “Too.”

  I closed the sack, raised my hand, and they fell quiet. “It’s all right,” I said. “Y’all did well.”

  “How’s Mister Greene?” Edith asked.

  “Better.” Was he? “I think so. He’s not bleeding.”

  “And Mowbray?” Baby Hugh inquired.

  I couldn’t lie. Not to my brother and sister. My head shook. “I … he’s … I don’t know. It’s … Wilson says he’s … dying.”

  No response.

  “We should cook them some supper,” Edith said.

  Baby Hugh frowned. “All of them?”

  I thrust out the sack for him to carry, saying: “I think there’s enough for them … and us ….”

  “And Mama?” Hugh’s face brightened.

  “Mama, too,” I said.

  With no frying pan, we skewered the fish—sort of cleaned and gutted them with some old saw blades—and roasted them over the coals.

  Wilson ate the two biggest fish, and we left four others for Mowbray and Jared Greene, if they ever awakened.

  By then, it was late afternoon, and the skies had darkened again.

  “We need to go home,” I told Wilson.

  Fear shot through his face.

  “We’ll be back,” I said.

  “Swear to God?”

  “I swear to God.”

  “And you ain’t gonna tell nobody that we’s here?”

  “I swear.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow. I promise.”

  * * * * *

  Those two miles home might have been the longest two miles we’d ever traveled.

  Silently we passed the trash left by the army, past the overturned caisson, the hats, the bayonet, the haversacks. The sock remained in the road, but the brogan was gone. So, thankfully, was the corpse of the bald Confederate soldier.

  As we neared our lane, Edith asked: “What are we going to do?”

  I kept walking.

  “Should we tell Mama?” she asked.

  “No.” That much I knew.

  “But she knows about nursing, and all of those poor men need nursing.”

  “We can’t tell Mama,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “We just can’t is all.”

  “Well, we can’t keep them there forever.”

  Swinging the sack of fish he proudly carried, Baby Hugh attempted to whistle. He stopped, and said: “I’d like to have a slave.”

  “Hugh Ford!” Edith shouted.

  “Well, I would.”

  “I’ll tell Mama on you.”

  “You won’t tell Mama a thing, Edith,” I said. “We have to keep quiet about this.”

  “We could take them to Miss Mary’s,” Edith said. “Or up the road to Lee’s place. They’d take good care of all three.”

  My head shook. “They’d be prisoners.”

  “They’d be cared for,” Edith said. “By doctors.”

  “And a nurse like Mama,” Baby Hugh added.

  “They’d be murdered,” I told them.

  We finished the walk home without speaking.

  Chapter

  Twenty-One

  Mama didn’t get home till after dark.

  She came into the kitchen to the smell of frying fish—actually more like burning—and the sight of Edith holding the skillet over the coals in the oven, grease popping, coals sizzling, smoke billowing out of the skillet and up the chimney, and me trying to flip a blackened bream with a long fork.

  “My goodness,” she said as she came to our rescue.

  The skillet came out, and she let the coals die down some, sliding the burned fish onto a plate.

  “How many did you catch?” she asked.

  Instead of answering, we hugged her.

  “My goodness,” she said again. “Was I gone that long?”

  “Felt like forever,” Edith said.

  Mama let out a weary sigh. “Felt like forever for me, too.”

  After kissing us all, she pulled off her bonnet, and looked around the kitchen. We had cleaned all of the fish, even the small ones. That much we knew how to do. Papa had shown me and even Edith how, and we had watched him enough to know the proper method of removing the scales, cutting off the head, gutting the insides.

  Cooking, on the other hand, was something different.

  “Where’s the batter?” Mama asked.

  “Batter?” Edith said.

  She smiled, and went to work, giving us a lesson in coating a fish with cornmeal. “Dip it in milk,” she said. “Usually, it’s good to beat an egg or two with the milk, but ….” She shrugged. “Then dip it in the cornmeal, coating both sides. Then into the skillet in which you’ve melted bacon grease.”

  That was one thing we had plenty of, even if Papa hadn’t been around to butcher a pig these past couple of falls.

  Once Mama had finished cooking, we ate. She insisted on eating the black one, and, grinning at Edith, she said it was quite tasty. “We should have fish every day,” she announced as we helped her with the dishes.

  Which was perfect as far as I was concerned. “I’ll go,” I announced.<
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  “Why you?” Baby Hugh demanded. “You didn’t catch nothin’. You was too busy ….” He stopped himself.

  “Too busy doing what?” Mama asked.

  “Bossing us around,” Edith said.

  Mama laughed, as I tried to think how I could repay Edith. She could lie to our mother as well as I could lie to Confederate cavalry.

  Dishes done, we moved to the porch to sit and listen to the quiet. Fireflies flickered in the trees beyond the well.

  “Can I catch some and put ’em in a jar, Mama?” Baby Hugh asked.

  “No.” Her voice was soft, as if she were lost in thought. I guess she was. She sighed, and added: “No, let them stay free.”

  “How was …?” Edith swallowed. “Was it …?”

  Mama turned toward us, smiling faintly. “I’d rather not talk about it. Do you understand?”

  Our heads nodded.

  Hers shook. “Those poor boys,” she said. “So young. So proud.”

  The wind blew. An owl hooted. Inside the barn, our cow lowed.

  “So,” Mama said after a moment, “what did y’all do today? Other than fish?”

  “We ….” I tried to think of something. What had we done? Saved two Union soldiers and a runaway slave from being murdered by Texas horse soldiers. Cauterized the wound on a black soldier.

  “Did you read?” she asked, saving me from trying to think of another lie.

  “No,” we said in unison.

  With a sigh, she looked back down the lane. “Well, it’s too late to read tonight.”

  “Did you see Papa?” Baby Hugh blurted out.

  “No.” Another sigh. “I didn’t see one person from his regiment. And I can guarantee you that I asked almost everyone …. No, I didn’t see your father.”

  “The fish was good,” Edith commented. “Thanks to you.”

  “Your father showed me how to fry fish,” she said. “When we first were married, Connor was a good cook. Still is, I bet.”

  “Maybe he’ll come home,” Edith said. “He’s near here.”

  “He’s gotta come see us!” Baby Hugh said.

  Mama whispered: “Maybe.”

  In the woods, far away, a coyote called out.

  We went to bed.

  * * * * *

  The next day Mama let me go back to the mill by myself. Edith and Baby Hugh complained, but Mama informed them that they needed to study, and do chores, and since they had caught all of the fish yesterday, I deserved a turn today.

  I felt lucky. Till I reached the sawmill.

  Sergeant Jared Greene was sitting up, which made me feel hopeful. Still, he seemed in pain, holding his side as sweat poured down his cheeks. But he was alive. Alive and sitting up.

  Jeremiah Wilson squatted beside him. He smiled weakly at me, and sat down, breathing a sigh of relief.

  When I turned to Mowbray, however, I knew he was dead. My knees gave out, and I dropped onto the dirt floor, knocking over a shovel.

  “It’s all … right … Travis.” Greene sounded as if every word, every syllable, hurt.

  “Mowbray,” Wilson added, “he’s free now. Free. Got the jubilee.”

  We had to bury him, of course, and that was a problem. Roots ran deep in the forest, and the ground could be rocky. It wasn’t like I could haul his body to Miss Mary’s place and bury him in the graveyard for her slaves. Sergeant Greene couldn’t help, and I didn’t know how strong Jeremiah Wilson was.

  “You know … where the … dam … is?” Greene said.

  I nodded.

  “Good.” He winced, tried to find a more comfortable position. “Well … about … fifty yards … upstream. Big pile … of rocks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your father’s … idea.” He had to pause to catch his breath. “Case the … creek … flooded. It did … sometimes …. Connor said … needed rocks … to replace those … washed … away.” Wilson and I waited. A minute passed before Jared Greene found enough energy to continue. “Beyond that … toward the Pike … there’s a … clearing. Be a … good place … for … Mowbray.”

  “But the ground …” I started.

  His nod silenced me. “I know. Dig deep as … you can. Won’t be deep. But pile them … rocks over … him. Best we … can do.” He wiped his brow, and lay down.

  “He won’t mind. Mowbray’ll … under- … stand.”

  * * * * *

  I remember Edith and Mama saying that yesterday had felt like forever. For me, this day stretched out even longer.

  Wilson and I carried the dead slave to the clearing. I scraped at the earth with a shovel while Wilson brought stones from the creek side. After thirty minutes or so, we switched chores. For a while, we kept that up, and I guess we managed to dig a foot before roots and stones and bedrock stopped us. Then we put Mowbray in the shallow grave, and slowly began covering his body with stones.

  Tears blinded us while we worked, which was a good thing since it was hard to bear covering the old man’s body with rocks without having wrapped him in a blanket.

  When the last rock was in place, Wilson stared at me. “You knows what to say?” he asked.

  “Amen,” was all I answered.

  He nodded. “Amen.”

  We returned to the shed.

  I couldn’t fish. Just didn’t have the heart after burying Mowbray, or the energy after digging and moving those rocks. My palms sported blisters, and I wondered how I would ever explain those to Mama. They would require the biggest lie I had told her yet. So I sat, while Jared Greene slept, and Jeremiah Wilson went to the pond with my pole and my can of worms.

  I didn’t know what the fishing was like in Missouri, but Jeremiah Wilson knew what he was doing. He came back with eight bream, all hand-size, explaining how he had caught a tiny fish and used it for bait. With spare hooks he had fashioned, he placed bits of meat from the tiny fish onto the hooks, and dropped them with twine to the bottom of the millpond.

  “Get us some catfish come tomorrow,” he said.

  I cleaned four of the fish—having remembered to bring a knife with me this time—for Wilson and Greene, and took the other four home for Mama to fry.

  Which is how things went for almost a week.

  Every morning, after I’d gone through some pages of McGuffey’s, milked the cow, maybe hoed the garden, or helped with some other chore, I’d be off to the millpond with a can of worms and a fishing pole or two. I told Mama I might need two poles in case something happened to one. Sometimes Baby Hugh or Edith would come with me, but more often I went alone.

  Sometimes I brought back bream or crappie. A few times catfish, which Wilson showed me how to clean. And twice, I brought back nothing. The fish weren’t biting, not even in the creek.

  One day, I entered the tool shed and stopped, embarrassed by what I saw.

  Jeremiah Wilson held the cigar box Papa had carved, holding it as if it were precious, smiling at the minstrel singing to the lady. Jared Greene, however, was reading the tablet. Seeing me, both men sat up straighter. Then Wilson leaped up, and slid the box onto the nearest shelf, muttering rapid-fire apologies.

  Jared Greene merely closed the tablet, and held it out to me. “You’re a good storyteller, son,” he said.

  My face flushed.

  “No, I mean it.”

  My trembling hands took the tablet. I wanted to take the cigar box and hide it.

  “French adventures. Sword fights. Reminds me of Dumas.”

  I blinked back surprise and faced Greene again.

  “But what do you mean, Travis, when you write wee-wee?”

  “It’s French,” I said. “Means yes.”

  He laughed. Wilson grinned, but I knew he didn’t know what struck the sergeant as so funny. Truth is I didn’t, either.

  “O-u-i,” Greene said.
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  I stared.

  “O-u-i spells oui. Not w-e-e,” Greene explained.

  If I’d read oui in Dumas, I’d read right over it. My French came from listening to Mama and Miss Mary.

  Wilson got it. He slapped his thigh. “Wee-wee. That means something else, don’t it?”

  We had a good laugh. At my expense, but it felt good to laugh again.

  * * * * *

  After six days, Sergeant Jared Greene could stand, and he insisted that we go to Mowbray’s grave. He couldn’t walk on his own, not even with a cane I’d fashioned from a limb, so Wilson and I helped him. The grave was undisturbed.

  Greene bowed his head. I guess he prayed silently for Mowbray. Then he drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said:

  Whether on the scaffold high,

  Or in the battle’s van,

  The fittest place for man to die

  Is where he dies for man.

  I didn’t know where those words came from, but they sounded fitting. When we were back in the shed, Greene asked: “Travis, what do you see along the road?”

  My shrug didn’t appease him.

  “Soldiers?”

  “Some,” I said. “Not many.”

  “Rebs or Union?”

  “Rebs. I guess your army is holed up in Camden.”

  “Find out what you can, Travis. If you can.”

  I didn’t know what I could find out, but I told him I’d try, and walked back home.

  That was April 25th. That was the day of the Battle at Marks’ Mill. Maybe thirty miles northwest of Camden, the Yankees and Confederates tangled again. Later, we learned that the Federals were sending a supply train to help the forces in Camden. With all the rains, however, the Camden-Pine Bluff Road proved practically impassible, and at Marks’ Mill—an old saw and flour operation up in Cleveland County—the Confederates hit the train, and won another battle, another rout. Word of the battle spread quickly across the county. We didn’t hear of any colored troops being massacred, but the Rebs who stopped by our home to water their horses later said they had captured not only the entire train, but scores of food and supplies.