Poison Spring

by Boggs, Johnny D. ; Abell, Chris;

  We went to bed in the loft, none of us kids sleepy. Papa stayed in the corncrib, and Mama with him. Which made it easy for me to sneak out before dawn, quiet-like, so as not to wake Edith and Baby Hugh. Mama must have taken the Spiller and Burr with her, and Papa’s rifle remained with him, so I had to take the shotgun, the flask of powder, a pouch of shot, and a tin of percussion caps, of which there were ten or twelve. I eased through the door in the darkness well before light, tiptoed off the porch, crept up the lane and to the pike. Then I ran.

  * * * * *

  “You can’t stay here any longer!”

  In the tool shed, Jared Greene lit a candle, as Jeremiah Wilson rubbed sleep from his eyes. From his appearance, Sergeant Greene had not slept in days.

  “Rebels know where we are?” Greene asked. He shook his head before I could answer. “No, we’d be dead if that were true.”

  “But they’s all along the road,” Wilson said. He looked at me. “I been sneakin’ up in the woods, spyin’, seein’ how things is.”

  “Things aren’t good.” Greene’s head shook. “That road is thick with Secesh, Travis. How do you think two men of color could get out of here alive?”

  “Join up with your army,” I said.

  “Our army is leaving Camden. By way of the Military Road.” Wilson’s head shook. “No way for us to gets back to our regiment, or any Union force.”

  “But ….” I thought about this for a moment, then my head bobbed, trying to convince myself I was right. “But the Confederates … they’ll be following you Yanks ….” I stopped. “You Federals. They’ll be following you, waiting for the right spot to attack.”

  “But that road out yonder,” Greene said, “it goes to Washington. Nothing much but Rebs down that way.”

  “But if we turn off, toward Arkadelphia …” Wilson began.

  “I don’t think the Secesh in that burg want to see us again,” Greene said.

  I kept talking. “Move to Rockport.” Uncle Willard had told me once that Rockport had been all but abandoned. “Cross the river there. Then it’s an easy trek to Little Rock.”

  “You plan on guidin’ us, Travis?” Wilson asked, grinning. “That how come you brung that shotgun?”

  “Yes,” I said, and they fell silent, faces hardening.

  The shed door slammed open, the candle blew out, and a voice that I instantly recognized bellowed: “I’ll kill the first one of you that moves!”

  Chapter

  Twenty-Three

  A lantern glowed behind Papa, turning him into a shadowy figure. The lantern moved, a horse snorted, and yellow light bathed the inside of the shed. Wilson shivered, Greene held his breath, and my heart stopped.

  “Travis.” Mama held the lantern. “What on earth …?” In that moment she recognized Jared Greene.

  Whispering something I couldn’t make out, she sank to her knees, had to support herself on the doorjamb. The lantern rested by a shovel. Papa stepped closer, and lowered his rifle.

  Jared Greene looked up. He didn’t recognize my father until Papa said out his name.

  “Connor?” Greene asked hesitantly.

  Papa leaned against the door. “It’s been a long time.”

  They kept the reunion short, and the stories basic. Papa shared the last of his hardtack with Wilson and Greene.

  Gray light began to peak through the pines and oaks.

  “What are we going to do?” Mama asked.

  “Hide here?” Papa said.

  Greene’s head shook. “Just be a matter of time before we were dead.” His head tilted toward me. “Travis knows. Seems like we’ve had visitors quite frequently here.”

  “At our farm, too,” Papa said.

  “Don’t know how long this war’ll keep going,” Greene said, “but we can’t hide till the shooting stops.”

  “Iffen it ever stops,” Jeremiah Wilson said.

  We fell quiet.

  Then Wilson said: “Your boy’s got an idea. Good one. Well, better that anything else I’s heard.”

  Their stares made me uncomfortable, but I told them in an uncertain whisper. Camden-Washington Pike to the Arkadelphia turn-off. Up through there, to Rockport, cross the river, on to Little Rock and the Union forces.

  Papa’s head shook. “And me winding up in a Yankee prison camp? Think I’d rather be shot or hung. Quicker than rotting to death.”

  “You won’t be a prisoner, Connor,” Jared Greene said. “I’ll see to that.”

  “If you live,” Mama said. Not out of meanness. Just out of fact. A fact I hadn’t thought of.

  “It’s a risk,” Papa said after a while.

  “For all of us,” Mama said.

  “You aren’t going,” Papa told her.

  “I most certainly am. We all have to leave.”

  Papa started to argue, but she cut him off. “How long do you think we could survive here, Connor? Our neighbors hate us already. Hate me, anyway. I used to think of this place as home, but no more, Connor. No more. I know you put your heart and soul into this mill, into our farm. Give it to Willard. He could make something of it. But it’s dead to me. This whole place is just … just ….”

  “Poison,” I said.

  We fell silent again, although Mama’s head bobbed.

  Outside, the horse snorted.

  “Hey,” I said, looking into the early light. “That’s Nutmeg.”

  Papa laughed. “Haven’t had to eat her yet. Been hiding her in the hollow.”

  I stepped outside, went to the old brown mare, rubbed my hand across her neck. Papa had ground-reined her. She was thin, like every other horse I’d seen lately, but she seemed to recognize me, nuzzling me gently. I moved down her side, looked over the saddle, stared at the old sawmill.

  The Ford Family Mill.

  That’s when the idea almost staggered me.

  * * * * *

  The first risk was if someone took Nutmeg. Scarce as horses were, and as busy as the main road had been, that was a big possibility. That early in the morning, however, Mama and I saw nobody as we rode double to our home. When we got back to the dogtrot, I led Nutmeg into the barn, to eat hay—more straw than hay, actually. I milked Lucy for the last time. I think Nutmeg remembered our cow. It was like a homecoming, of sorts, but it was brief. Inside the cabin, Mama was already waking Baby Hugh and Edith.

  After a breakfast of milk and leftover cornbread, we went to Miss Mary’s plantation, praying the Confederates hadn’t plundered everything. The hospital had moved on; those wounded badly had been transported to Washington or Arkadelphia, maybe Camden since the Yanks had fled. The soldiers who had recuperated followed the army to Marks’ Mill and wherever they were now. I hoped far, far from here.

  The wind picked up, banging some door in Miss Mary’s home open and shut. The wind also blew an ugly smell. The home, which I remembered always smelling of freshly baked bread and sweets and roasting turkey, now stank of death. I wondered if those soldiers who had died were buried here? And where? In Miss Mary’s family plot? Or had they been buried in the graveyard alongside those dead slaves? How would a Confederate soldier like to spend eternity lying next to a slave?

  Two wagons were parked inside the old carriage house, next to the unfinished structure that Miss Mary had started to build for Mowbray. Her fancy buggy, however, was gone, but that was all right. We needed a wagon. Usually, of course, you pull a farm wagon with two horses, but we had only Nutmeg. We figured it wouldn’t be too hard on her, though. And plenty of people in Washington County now used singletrees instead of doubletrees. Like I said before, horses and mules had become scarce.

  Quickly we harnessed Nutmeg.

  “Has she ever pulled a wagon before?” Edith asked.

  “Of course,” Mama said.

  With Nutmeg hitched, we climbed into the wagon, Mama on the seat, the rest
of us in the back. She released the brake, snapped the lines, and off we went, down the road, through the gate, turning onto the main Pike, heading toward Papa’s sawmill.

  Safe. So far. It wasn’t long before Mama tugged on the lines, slowing our pace. I turned to face her back and look ahead. Riders were coming down the road from Camden, but their timing worked for us. She simply turned Nutmeg, and we headed down the road to our home.

  “What’ll we do if they follow us?” Baby Hugh asked.

  “We’ll see,” Mama said. She was trying to check the Spiller and Burr hidden in her apron without letting anyone see, but we saw. Still, she smiled cheerily, and said: “If there’s anything you want to take with you from the house, this is your last chance.”

  After setting the brake, she stepped off the side of the wagon, helping Edith and Hugh down, while I jumped off. Mama kept looking down the path, but no one came.

  “We should get our Readers,” Edith suggested.

  Baby Hugh complained and kicked his feet.

  “Yes.” Mama tried to smile. “Yes. Go inside and get your books.”

  That reminded me of something, so into the house we went, collecting our McGuffey’s Readers. I hefted the unabridged dictionary. At the door, I turned back, and stared at the house Papa had built. Then I stepped onto the porch and down the steps one last time.

  “What’ll become of Lucy?” Baby Hugh asked as Mama helped him back into the wagon.

  “The cow’ll be fine,” Mama said. “Somebody will find her and take care of her.”

  No more words. No farewells. Mama climbed back into the wagon, and we were turning around, heading back toward the main road, hoping whoever had been riding toward us was well beyond the bend in the road by now.

  The Camden-Washington Pike appeared deserted. Mama let out a relieved sigh, and moved Nutmeg at a lively clip. Back toward the mill, turning down the woods lane, not slowing until Papa appeared from behind a tree, rifle ready. He smiled. Sergeant Greene stepped around one of the sawdust barrels, holding the shotgun I had brought him.

  Once Mama pulled the wagon up to the mill, I jumped out to help Jeremiah Wilson and Papa move one of the barrels I had filled with sawdust into the wagon. Jared Greene tried to help with the second, but Papa eased him back.

  “You rip open that side again, Jared, and you’ll be in a heap of trouble.”

  “With me,” Mama added, and Greene stepped back, smiling weakly.

  Once the two barrels were in the wagon, I pried off the lid of one. We had scooped out most of the sawdust.

  “You certain this’ll work?” Wilson asked.

  I answered honestly by shaking my head. Wilson grinned, and Papa and me helped him into the barrel, quickly turning toward Jared Greene, who stepped onto the wagon. He held the cigar box in his right hand.

  “Figured you might want this, Travis. Oui?”

  I took the box, ignoring Papa’s puzzled look, and said with a smile: “Oui.” The box went in the corner of the wagon on top of Webster’s.

  When Greene was in the second barrel, Edith handed the two soldiers wet bandannas to cover their faces. Mama, Papa, me, even Baby Hugh, began scooping sawdust into the barrels, covering the two Yankees as much as possible.

  “These barrels are far from solid,” Papa told them. “It’ll be hot and stuffy, but there should be enough space between the boards for you to breathe.”

  “And if we can’t?” The wet bandanna muffled Wilson’s voice.

  “Just don’t shout out,” Papa said. “No telling who’ll be nearby.”

  The lids went back into place.

  “What about you, Papa?” Edith asked.

  “Two good barrels,” he said, climbing over onto the driver’s seat. “That’s all we have. This’ll have to work.” He helped Mama onto the seat beside him, motioned for us to sit down. “Probably better this way,” he said, and flicked the lines. “Just let me do all the talking.”

  Thus we started the longest drive of our lives.

  * * * * *

  I thought of everything that could have happened. We could have bogged down in the quagmire that once had been a road. We could have run into Uncle Willard, coming up from Magnolia since the Yanks were on the run. We could have just been robbed by deserters, trash, anyone. Drowned crossing a river. Been waylaid by the Reverend White. Or we could have just given up, fled back home.

  Baby Hugh sniffled when we rode past the lane to our house, and Mama turned around, telling us: “It’s all right to cry, children.”

  But we didn’t. Even Baby Hugh stopped crying, dried his eyes, bit his lip, and just stared at the muddy road behind us.

  Past Miss Mary’s.

  My heart began beating normally again. For an hour. Then it felt like it stopped when Papa began pulling on the lines, and said: “Whoa, Nutmeg!”

  Turning, I spotted a dozen or more men in gray uniforms riding up. A black-bearded, bespectacled man stepped toward Papa’s side of the wagon.

  “Where you bound, Sergeant?”

  I cringed. Why hadn’t Papa shed his uniform, tried to pass himself off as a civilian?

  “Arkadelphia.” Papa gestured toward the barrels in the back.

  Again, I cringed. Another mistake. Don’t let those soldiers see anything, suspect anything, I told myself.

  “What the blazes for? The Yanks are north and east of here.”

  Papa grinned. “Yeah,” he said, “but General Cabell found a house in Arkadelphia that he fancies. And I used to run a sawmill up the road from here.”

  “So.”

  Again, Papa pointed toward the barrels. “Sawdust,” he said. “I’ve been ordered to insulate Cabell’s new home.”

  The officer stepped back, pulled off his glasses, began wiping the lenses with a polka-dot bandanna. His clear blue eyes locked on me. I tried to smile.

  “This your crew?” he asked, pointing with his glasses.

  “My family. Cheap labor.”

  “O’Ryan,” the captain said. “Check those barrels.”

  Baby Hugh almost said something, but Edith pinched his leg, and I jumped up, saying: “Let me help you, sir.”

  I was hoping, praying that Papa knew what he was doing, praying that Jeremiah and Jared had burrowed their heads underneath the sawdust.

  The lid came off, and the jaundiced soldier named O’Ryan climbed up with my help, and peered into the barrel.

  “Sawdust, Capt’n,” he reported.

  “For insulation?” The eyeglasses resumed their place on the captain’s head.

  “Yes, sir,” Papa answered.

  “I’ll help you with the other barrel, sir,” I told O’Ryan, but he shook his head, muttering something, and stepped down.

  “Check it, too,” the captain ordered.

  Back up came O’Ryan, and we pulled off the lid together.

  “More sawdust, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  I pounded both lids back in place.

  “Got the Yanks on the run,” the captain said.

  “Yep,” Papa said.

  “That Poison Spring was something, I hear. Wish I’d been there.”

  “It was something,” Papa said.

  “You were there?”

  He nodded.

  The captain’s grin almost made me vomit. “Kill any colored boys?”

  Papa grinned back at him. “As many as I could.”

  They laughed. My stomach heaved. But the wagon had started moving again, and as soon as we had rounded the next curve, Papa leaned over and spit the disgust out of his mouth.

  “You did well, Travis,” he told me, wiping his mouth.

  “You did, too,” I said, adding: “Papa.”

  The following evening, we endured another search in Arkadelphia, but this time Papa said that Cabell’s desired home was
in Rockport. And this time, the soldiers only searched one barrel, although I got a fright when that Confederate dipped his hand into the barrel, letting sawdust flow through his fingers to show the sergeant in charge of the guard.

  Late the next day, we crossed the river at Rockport.

  That’s when Papa turned off the road, and removed his uniform, burying it in the woods, putting on duck trousers and a cotton shirt, neither of which fit him any more. While Mama hurriedly helped Papa trim his beard and cut his hair, Edith, Baby Hugh, and I helped Jeremiah Wilson and Jared Greene out of the barrels.

  Sawdust stuck to their clothes and hair and faces, which it made us laugh.

  Two days later, we rode into Little Rock.

  * * * * *

  “This is for you, Connor.” Jared Greene pinched a white envelope between the thumb and two fingers on his right hand.

  We were in a room with hundreds of soldiers, all of us, except Jeremiah Wilson, who was somewhere in the vast warehouse the army had transformed into a hospital.

  Papa took the envelope, turned it over, looked at the black sergeant curiously.

  “It’s a letter of introduction to Joseph Donovan. Says I know you as a fine woodworker, furniture maker.” He grinned. “There aren’t a lot of sawmills in Lawrence, Kansas, Connor. Not many trees, you understand.”

  “Well ….” Papa didn’t know what to say.

  Of course, Mama did. “I wonder what Willard would think of that, Connor. His brother receiving a letter of introduction from a man of color.”

  Grinning, Papa reached over, and shook Jared Greene’s hand. “Be careful,” he said. “War’s not over yet.”

  “It is for you, Mister Ford,” Greene said.

  He was shaking all our hands, when a nurse came in, shooing us away, saying this was a hospital for soldiers who were freeing the Negroes and preserving the Union, and not for cowards who didn’t have the gumption to fight. She glared at Papa, who merely, and meekly, shrugged. My ears flamed. I was ready to punch that old crone in her nose.