The Confederates were eating well. We Fords weren’t.
By that time, we were mighty sick of fish. Mama had even suggested that I give the fish a break, which meant I had to sneak away to bring Jared Greene and Jeremiah Wilson whatever I could sneak out of the house: carrots, potatoes, cold cornbread, and even congealed grits. I always took the fishing poles and worms with me. Just in case Mama caught me.
Greene and Wilson didn’t seem to mind the food. The news about Marks’ Mill, however, was another story.
“We was s’posed to be goin’ all the way to Shreveport,” Jeremiah Wilson said sadly. “Reckon we ain’t goin’ nowheres now.”
I didn’t know what he meant.
“Plan for the campaign,” Jared Greene explained to me. “Take Shreveport, Louisiana. Did that Secesh tell you anything else?”
Glumly I nodded. “Looks like your army is pulling out of Camden.”
Greene nodded. Wilson swore.
“Back to Little Rock?” Greene asked.
“On the Military Road,” I said. “But that’s just from a soldier, and he wasn’t an officer. Just an infantry private. With no shoes.”
“Yeah, but I believe what he said.” Greene shook his head. “That means the Johnny Rebs’ll be back in this area thicker than flies. Means Wilson and me need to join up with our boys.”
“What’s left of ’em,” Wilson added.
“You got a horse?” Greene knew the answer already, so he added: “Or know anybody with one?”
My head shook.
“Got no guns. No horses. My side won’t let me march all the way back to Little Rock. And if the Secesh catch us ….” He grinned without humor.
I remembered the Spiller and Burr. That I could sneak out of the house, but not the shotgun.
“I can fetch you a revolver,” I said.
Their moods brightened.
Greene said: “I don’t want to bring no trouble down on you, Travis.”
“You won’t.”
“That’d help.” He wet his lips. “Some.”
“I wish I could do more.”
“You done aplenty,” Wilson said. “Wasn’t for you, we’d be dead and buried by now. Maybe not even buried.”
“Tomorrow,” I said, and ran home.
* * * * *
The Camden-Washington Pike was crowded again. Soldiers in gray uniforms moved through the bog, but they weren’t alone. Men in civilian clothes had joined them. Marching or riding toward Camden, they ignored a bony boy running on the other side of the bar ditch with a can full of earthworms and a couple of fishing poles.
I reached home, set the fishing gear on the porch, and started up the steps.
Mama met me at the door, and she wasn’t happy. “Where’ve you been?” she snapped.
“Uh ….” I pointed at the poles and worm can. “Fishing.”
“Fishing?” She didn’t believe me.
“I didn’t catch anything.”
“Did you see soldiers? On the road?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. Then remembered my manners. “Yes, ma’am. Plenty.”
“Confederate?”
I squinted. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Come here!”
She moved past me, down the steps, rounded the house, speaking as she made a beeline to wherever she was going. “I told you we should give the fish a break,” she said as I followed.
“Yes, ma’am. I just thought ….”
We had reached the corncrib, and Mama was heading up the ladder. I’d always thought I was too big now for a switching, but no longer did I feel such immunity. Mama made it to the top, turned to peer down the lane, then told me to hurry.
When I reached the crib, I gasped at the sight of the man inside it, dressed in denim and gray, leaning against the far wall.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
For a moment, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t even sure my heart still beat. I couldn’t look away from the man in the crib.
Wavy dark hair, ragged and greasy, fell past his shoulders. A bandage had been tied across his head, blackened by dried blood on his forehead. His gray woolen tunic, which had no buttons, was splattered with mud, as were his denim trousers. A brown hat, the front brim pinned up with a brass “2,” rested between his legs. His boots, spurs still on, had been pulled off and stood in front of his sockless, filthy feet.
Baby Hugh sat next to him, steadying in his lap a bowl full of grits, which the man slowly ate with a big spoon. Edith knelt on the opposite side, holding a ladle over a bucket of water. An over-and-under rifle leaned in the corner.
Laying the spoon in the bowl, the man turned toward me. His face was thin—his whole body looked like it would blow away in a stiff breeze—and his beard was dirty, unkempt. I recognized his eyes, a clear, quiet hazel. And his voice, which I had once feared I had forgotten and would never hear again.
“Hello, old man,” my father said.
At first, I just stood there, unable to move, mouth hanging open—“Catching flies,” as Papa used to say. Even when Mama told me—“Run hug your father, Travis.”—I couldn’t. Finally Mama took my hand, and led me across the crib. Baby Hugh moved aside, and Edith dropped the ladle into the bucket.
Papa held out his hand. The hands had been washed, but plenty of dirt remained underneath his fingernails. I shook his hand.
“Grown some,” he said.
There was no stopping the tears. I went to him then, and he pulled me close with a thin but firm arm. I guess I hugged him pretty hard, because he grunted, laughed, and pushed me back just a tad, saying in a hoarse whisper: “Easy, Travis. I got aches all over.”
Pushing myself up, I wiped the tears, sniffed.
“Been eating acorns, berries, and roots,” he said, “till I got here. Anna Louella’s been trying to put some weight back on my bones these past three days.”
I blinked. “Three days?”
“Travis,” Mama said, as if she were about to begin to explain.
“Papa’s been living in the corncrib,” Baby Hugh said.
Again I blinked. My head shook. I faced my kid brother. “How long have you known?” My head spun to Edith, who cast her eyes down. I’d been so focused on helping Jared Greene and Jeremiah Wilson that I hadn’t noticed anything unusual at my own home.
“Just this morning,” Edith finally answered.
“You wasn’t here,” Baby Hugh said.
“But ….” My head shook again, unable to comprehend.
Papa grimaced, and reached up toward the bandage across his head.
“You’re hurt,” I said.
“I’ll be fine.”
“But there’s a hospital. They’ve turned Miss Mary’s place into a hospital. And there’s plenty of soldiers on the road and ….”
“Travis!” Mama spoke sharply. “There’s no hospital at Mary Frederick’s. Not any more. Besides ….”
“But ….”
A horse whinnied, and a voice called out: “Hello the house!”
For a moment, fear paralyzed everyone in the crib.
“Stay here.” Mama brought a finger to her lips, and turned to head down from the crib.
“Travis,” Papa whispered. “Best hand me that rifle.”
Slowly I moved to the corner. My hand touched the rifle, cold, so cold.
Below, in front of the house, a voice said: “Well, hello there, missy.”
“What you doin’ up in that corncrib?” called out another.
There were two of them. At least.
“What can I do for you two gentlemen?”
Two. Only two. I hefted the rifle, saw that the nipple was capped. It was the same rifle Papa had carried off to war, the one made by that German in Warren County, Kentucky.
“Like some water,” the second voice said
, “iffen you ain’t got no objections.”
“Help yourself,” Mama said. “And welcome.”
“You gots any grub? Earl and me ain’t et in two days.”
“Cold grits.”
“That ain’t right appetizin’.”
Mama let out a forced laugh. “Tell me about it. It’s all my family’s had to eat for about a week now.”
“What’s in the corncrib?”
“It’s empty. I was hoping to find corn, but … nothing,” Mama said.
“This here mule, she’s hungry, too. Corn would be nice. She ain’t et, neither. And … well … seein’ how we’s ridin’ double, this mule ….”
The first man cut him off. “You got an extry mule or hoss?”
“Some friends of yours made off with our mules months ago.”
Papa whispered my name urgently. “Fetch me that rifle, Son. Now.”
“Doesn’t the army feed you and your mule?” Mama asked.
“Well,” the first man said, “it’s like this, missy. The army and us don’t exactly see eye to eye no more.”
“I’ll bring you grits,” Mama said. “That’s all we have.”
“Well, missy, I reckon that’s fine. And whilst you’s doin’ that, Earl’ll see what brings a lady like you up into an empty corncrib this time of day. And I’ll see if you ain’t forgotten some mule in your barn.”
“Travis,” Papa said.
I heard footsteps below. Then I was moving toward the ladder as Papa was trying to get to his feet.
The ladder moved. So did I. The hammer made a deafening click when I thumbed it back, braced the stock against my shoulder, and aimed down. Upon hearing the ominous click, the man looked up, and froze.
He wore unmatched shoes, threadbare trousers, a dirty plaid shirt, and a black and white checked vest. No hat. His hair was even more tangled than Papa’s, and twice as long. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Fletcher …!” he wailed.
“Stop right there!” I heard Mama say to the man named Fletcher.
“Now … missy … you …” he said to her.
“You take one more step toward my barn, and I’ll bury you, mister,” came Mama’s voice.
“Earl!” Fletcher called out. “This wench’s aimin’ a pistol at me. Come help. Come cut her throat!”
I thought to myself: Mama must have moved like a tornado to run into the house and grab the Spiller and Burr. Or maybe she had the revolver tucked inside her apron all this time.
“Hurry up!” Fletcher’s voice showed fear. “Now, missy, you don’t want ….”
Earl called out Fletcher’s name, never taking his eyes off me, and added: “They’s a boy here pointin’ a rifle at my head!”
“Mount your mule,” Mama said loud enough for all to hear. “Ride out!”
“But ….”
“Or die. The both of you. I honestly don’t care one way or the other. It’s your choice.”
“C’mon, Earl!” Fletcher yelled. “We’ll find a more hospitable family that honors those of us who wears the gray.”
Earl’s Adam’s apple moved again. “Is it all right, son?” His voice had risen several octaves. “Is it all right if I climb down this ladder? Rides out with Fletcher?”
“Do you have a knife?” I asked him.
“Yes, sonny. I mean, yes, sir. Just a butcher knife. Part of it’s broke off.”
“Drop it on the ground.” The rifle didn’t feel so heavy anymore.
Gripping the ladder with his right hand, he reached inside his vest and pulled out what once might have been a decent butcher’s knife. It fell into the dirt.
“Any gun?”
“No, sir.”
“Any other weapon?” I asked, and Earl shook his head.
“Then get down, and get off my land,” I told him. “Our land.”
“Just be careful with that cannon, sir.” He leaped off the ladder, fell to the ground, scrambled up, and bolted out of the crib. I moved to the window, continuing to aim Papa’s rifle as Earl joined Fletcher, who seemed even thinner, even uglier, than his partner. Combined, the two likely weighed more than the mule. I’d never seen a more pathetic animal. Or two more pathetic humans.
Mama stood, both hands steadying the Spiller and Burr, which I could tell was cocked.
The mule put up a fight, didn’t want to go—and I couldn’t blame it for that—but finally Earl and Fletcher managed to get it to cooperate some, and they hurried down the lane.
Mama lowered the revolver, brought the back of her left hand to her forehead. I felt Papa behind me, and he took the rifle from my hands, easing down the hammer, watching, making sure our two visitors would not come back.
“They were deserters,” Edith said. “Weren’t they?”
Mama spoke sharply. “They were trash.”
He moved back in the corncrib, so he could sit down again and drink water from the ladle. Baby Hugh climbed on his lap. Mama climbed the ladder while I stared out the window, down the lane. I had leaned the rifle in the corner within easy reach. Edith kneeled by the water bucket.
I think I knew then exactly what was going on, why Papa had been hiding in the corncrib for three days, but I had to ask. After sighing heavily, I turned to Papa.
“Are you like them, Papa?”
Mama, stepping off the ladder, spoke my name sharply.
“It’s all right, Anna Louella.” Papa handed the ladle back to Edith. “Am I a deserter?” His head nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I am.” He motioned weakly with his right hand. “Sit down. It’s about time I laid the truth on you.”
“Connor …” Mama said.
“It’s all right. They need to know.”
I was glad he had asked us to sit. My legs felt weak.
“I was at Poison Spring,” he said. Tears welled in his eyes. I’d never seen Papa cry before. He looked away, just staring at the ceiling.
“Corporal Brodie,” Edith said. “He said you were sent to the rear.”
“Brodie’s a good man,” Papa said. “Yeah. We got sent back by Cabell. A couple miles. In case the Federals in Camden sent reinforcements. But they didn’t. And Lieutenant Tyree sent me back with a message for Major Somervell.” He paused.
Mama moved toward Baby Hugh. “Let’s go, Hugh,” she said.
But Papa waved her off. “No, I want all of them to hear.”
“He’s too young.”
“I ain’t too young!” Baby Hugh snapped. “I already know all ….”
“We won the battle,” Papa said, thankfully cutting off my brother before he blabbed about everything. “We were fighting ….”
“Colored boys?” Hugh asked.
Mama whirled, but not at my brother. She glared at me. “How does he know? What …?”
“Soldiers,” I said. “Soldiers told us.”
Which was not a lie.
“Did they tell you what we did?”
“You didn’t do anything, Connor,” Mama said.
“I didn’t stop it.”
I felt sick.
“There was a regiment of Choctaw Indians. They killed. They scalped. But the Texans … and Arkansans … we weren’t any better. The thing is … those soldiers … the colored ones … we had them beaten. They were trying to surrender. To give up.” Tears disappeared into his thick beard. “We didn’t let them. It was ….”
“Murder,” I whispered.
He nodded. “Yeah. That’s what it was, Travis. Murder.”
We said nothing, just watched Papa cry. “Do you understand, Edith? Hugh?”
By that time, all of us were crying.
“But you didn’t ….” Mama tried to come to Papa’s defense.
“I didn’t do anything, Anna!” he bellowed. “I just stood there. I just watched. There was a Texas captain standing right beside m
e, and he said … ‘Don’t take any prisoners, boys. Put ’em all to the sword.’ And the sergeant standing right next to me, he laughed. And I just stood there. I just stood there. By God, I laughed with them. I stood there. I watched. I laughed.” He swore, and that was something else Papa rarely had done, at least in front of us kids. “I must have lost my mind,” he said. “Just went stark raving mad.”
Then he was bawling, no longer quietly crying. He wailed like a baby. Edith went to him, and he pulled her close. Baby Hugh said: “Everything’s all right. It wasn’t ….” Mama rushed to Papa, fell to her knees right beside him, while I just stood there.
Oh, I cried, too. Not loud, not like Edith, and Papa, and Baby Hugh. Real quiet, while just standing there, tasting the salty tears as they rolled down my cheeks and fell onto the dirty floor that smelled of must and ancient corn.
And I said something then. I didn’t know why. I remembered Miss Mary, always a good and kind and gentle lady, but she had whipped Mowbray. Drove him away. For no good reason. Now Mowbray was dead, not even properly buried. I recalled those soldiers, Northern and Southern, who had visited us, demanding food or corn we didn’t have. I remembered Jared Greene saying something. It was like the whole Secesh army turned crazy. Crazy for blood. I remembered Mama saying that the world had gone mad. I thought of Reverend White, who once had been a friend. Insanity touched everyone, so why not Papa?
“I guess,” I said, “everybody goes crazy in war.”
Papa brought up his head, wiped his eyes. “Yeah, Travis. I reckon you’re right.”
“It’s all right, Papa,” I said. “Everything’ll be all right.”
* * * * *
Of course, everything would never be all right. Not now. Papa was a deserter from the Second Arkansas Cavalry, and the Union Army was retreating from Camden back to Little Rock, perhaps all the way out of Arkansas. The Confederates would resume operations, would return to Camden. And Papa was here, hiding.
I knew something else. In the Confederate Army, in any army, they shot deserters.
I knew something else, too. Mama told Papa that maybe he could hide out in the woods. At the millpond. She told him we had been catching bream and crappie there, and that it was a great place to hide. For a while anyway. No one went to the mill anymore.
Poison Spring Page 19