The Cottoncrest Curse

by Michael H. Rubin

  He motioned for Jake to stay where he was and, remarkably fast for an old man, skittered across the break to the woods on the other side. There he waited behind the trunk of a large hickory. The moonlight illuminated the break, and Marcus, from his hiding place, could now see down the entire length of the gap between the woods and the sugar-cane field. Nothing moved in the cleared area, which, for all its width, still had not been wide enough to keep the fire from leaping it.

  Marcus signaled for Jake to join him. With the damp, muddy bear-skin in his arms, Jake swiftly left the burned sugarcane behind him and entered the safety of the dark woods.

  Jake followed Marcus as the old man sure-footedly threaded his way amid the hickory and bay trees, the wet earth squishing under their boots. Jake followed as they walked deeper and deeper into the forest, past the oaks and the scattered mimosa. The ground grew even softer, and now they were often walking ankle deep in water, which penetrated and then filled their leather boots.

  Still Marcus pushed on, through stands of gray and brown cypress, their gnarled trunks firmly planted in the swamp. Cypress knees, off-shoots of the main trunk, stuck up through the mud and water, evidence of the shallow, spreading roots below that held these ancient trees in place in the heavy clay soil.

  They made their way through the swamp without speaking. Although there was no visible path, Marcus did not hesitate. He knew these woods and swamps. He knew each gum and hickory and the drier spots that they signaled. He knew the area where lightning had brought down a huge oak, years ago, now lying like a giant soldier frozen at stiff-backed attention and chopped off at the knee. He knew the stands of palmettos, looking like huge green versions of the elaborate Chinese fans that the Colonel Judge had bought at the Cotton Exposition years ago, long before he married Miss Rebecca. Little Miss used to sit on the veranda in the summer and slowly wave one back and forth to create a little breeze in the hot evenings.

  Marcus even knew the areas thick with poison ivy and poison sumac, which they warily skirted. But after they passed yet another heavy growth of them, Marcus stopped on what appeared to be a narrow ridge in the midst of the swamp. The ground was firm. The poison oak and poison sumac, thickly curling around the trunks of trees and reaching up twenty feet or more into their branches, formed almost a veil from the rest of the marsh.

  “You can’t go back to the road, you know.”

  Jake nodded.

  “They’ll be lookin’ for you there. But they can’t ride no horses into these swamps. You stay in them, you understand?”

  Jake nodded his head. He understood all too well. Marcus had put his own life in danger to warn Little Jerusalem. He had helped save Jake as well, but now that the riders had seen Marcus with Jake, Marcus was a marked man, just as he was.

  “I got to go my way, and that ain’t the way you’re goin’. I got to meet up with Sally and Jenny. It’s gonna be after midnight ’fore I get to them. But you can’t go my way. Ain’t no white man can do that. Ain’t allowed.”

  Jake leaned back against a thick tree. The sky was already black, and the stars were twinkling through the overhead branches. “I’ll be all right.”

  Jake had escaped before. Then it was on the train, in that narrow, confined space. Hiding, always hiding, not daring to breathe. He was prepared to fight, but Marcus was right. If he wanted to see them, he would have to escape again, and here he had the whole breadth of the swamp.

  The thick veil of poison oak and sumac was like the trees’ wardrobe, a vast emerald and olive skirt. He had hidden under women’s skirts on the train. Now he was hiding under God’s skirts. He would make it to New Orleans, just like he had made it out of Russia.

  New Orleans. That reminded him. “You won’t forget to tell Jenny about meeting me in the Lafayette Cemetery in New Orleans, will you? It’s important.”

  “I don’t forget nothin’, Mr. Jake, you know that. Tell her, I will, before the sun rises. But tonight you can’t do nothin’ ’bout nothin’, so you ought to bed down right here. Good thing that Rossy gave you that bearskin. It’ll keep you warm, damp or not. Just roll up in it ’gainst this tree, and you’ll be all right. Shouldn’t be no bears out this late in the season, but I wouldn’t sleep too soundly if I was you. Keep your ears and eyes open, and in the mornin’ you’ll be able to see your way and get to Lamou.”

  “Just stay south, you said.”

  “Stay south. We’re already long past Little Jerusalem, and you don’t want to wander in any other direction. It won’t be safe for you, a white man in these woods, until you get near Lamou. South is the only way for you. But believe me, long before you get to Lamou, the folks in Lamou will know you’re there. A deer ain’t as skittish as them about strangers in the swamp. Them folks in Lamou can read the signs— from the wood ducks’ flights to the calls of the geese to the absence of muskrat ’cause it was gettin’ out of the way of something unusual— better than you can read a book. They’ll find you, even if you’re miles away. So, meanwhile, until morning just sit still and enjoy the quiet of the swamp.”

  The train had been noisy. Constant noise. Constant movement. Marcus was right. Jake would enjoy the quiet of the swamp, at least for one night. He unrolled the bearskin and draped it around his shoulders. He double-checked to see that the Freimer blade that Rossy had given back to him was firmly in his belt, in easy reach.

  Leaning back against the tree, Jake murmured, half to himself, “Tonight I’ll be a ganster porits.”

  “A what?”

  “A whole man of leisure, Marcus.”

  Marcus shook his head in disbelief. Here Mr. Jake was, being left alone in the woods, and he was thinking of himself as a man of leisure. Then he paused and smiled. “That’s a joke, isn’t it?”

  “Miten malach hamovess treibt nit kain katovess. You can’t joke with the Angel of Death.”

  Marcus reached down. The old man’s black gnarled fingers encircled Jake’s callused white hand and shook it with emotion. The Angel of Death was seeking them both.

  Chapter 43

  Cooper unwrapped the blanket on the ground. The infant was dead. She looked to be about six months old, a little younger than his and Rossy’s daughter.

  Cooper had carried the child out of Keith’s cabin with Peggy wailing and moaning and leaning on Keith’s arm. Tears dampened Keith’s cheeks, but he did not have the words to express his emotions.

  Nimrod and Rossy gathered around Keith and Peggy, while Esau kept back the rest of the twenty men, women, and children who had trekked into the swamp from Little Jerusalem. One of the young girls standing at the rear of the group was tending to Rossy’s baby.

  In the moonlight, lying on her blanket, Peggy’s child seemed at peace. She had a thick head of curly black hair, and her brown café au lait skin was smooth and perfect. Her little mouth was open, and but for her blue lips and glassy stare, you might have thought that she was in a restful sleep.

  “Shwadelivbyanj” Peggy repeated, between sobs.

  “An angel,” Keith agreed.

  Rossy hugged Peggy, who collapsed into her arms. “An angel brought her, Peggy?”

  “Ananj,” Peggy wailed.

  “Angel. Delivered by Angel,” Keith said slowly, trying to explain.

  Rossy look quizzically at Cooper. They didn’t know any midwife named Angel. When a midwife was needed, the folks in Little Jerusalem usually sent word to Cottoncrest, and Sally would come and do the tending and delivery. Who was Angel?

  Rossy hadn’t even known that Peggy was pregnant. Of course, no one in Little Jerusalem had seen Peggy since she and Keith had moved out of Little Jerusalem and into the swamp more than two years ago. Keith would limp in for supplies, bringing fish and game to trade, but Peggy never came with him.

  Rossy’s heart went out to Peggy. To lose a child so young, so beautiful.

  “Cooper,” Rossy said softly, still holding the weeping Peggy in her arms as Keith rocked back and forth on his heels, his arms clasped in silent prayer, “you got
to help Keith here give this little girl a proper burial. Nimrod, I know you knows the right words.”

  Cooper carefully rewrapped the tiny body into the blanket. He went over to the side of Keith’s cabin, found the shovel, and, taking Keith by the arm, asked him where he wanted the grave to be dug. Keith pointed to a spot under a large mimosa next to the bayou. “Pink. Summer. Beauty.”

  Cooper patted Keith on the back. He understood. When the summer came, the mimosa would bloom its feathery pink blossoms so light and delicate that a spider weaving a starburst out of the dew of the first light could not have created something as beautiful. Keith wanted his daughter buried under the mimosa, where beauty would surround her. “I’ll dig a grave worthy of her,” Cooper said, his powerful arms already pushing the shovel through the layer of leaves that lined the bank and into the soft, dark earth.

  Cooper dug quickly, and Keith stood nearby, watching. It did not take Cooper long to excavate a small trench, a few feet long and four and a half feet deep—deep enough so that when the bayou rose, the body would not wash to the surface.

  Nimrod was now escorting Peggy over to the graveside, and Rossy bent down to pick up the baby Cooper had wrapped in a blanket. As she gently cradled the dead child and walked toward the grave, Rossy was amazed by the touch of the blanket. It was dark now under the trees, and she couldn’t see the blanket clearly, but it felt so smooth. This was not homespun cotton. It was like the finest store-bought linens or like some of the best fabrics that the Peddler Man carried. Rossy didn’t know that Peggy and Keith owned anything like this.

  Cooper was standing in the grave. He reached up and took the dead child in his arms and tightly tucked the blanket in firmly so that it formed a shroud. Then he placed the baby in the bottom of the grave, arranged some stones over the body to keep it from floating up in high water, and paused for Nimrod to speak.

  Nimrod leaned on his cane. Although his legs were weak, his voice was still powerful. “The Lord sent Joseph into Egypt, and when Pharaoh had a dream, Joseph he done interpreted it. Seven fat cows and seven thin cows. Joseph, he knew that meant seven good years and seven bad years, and the people could plan for the bad years by savin’ up during the good’uns. Lord, we would be grateful to know when our good years will be. It seems as if we all is havin’ seven times seven bad years. But your glory and grace is all-powerful, and you have taken this child to you where she’ll have nothin’ but goodness for now on, for she was goodness to her mother, and goodness to her father, and goodness seven times over.”

  When Nimrod mentioned “mother” and “father,” Peggy began to wail again. Her piercing cry rose from her heart and extended to the tops of the trees. Keith hugged her tightly.

  Over her sad refrain Nimrod continued. “Lord, have mercy on the soul of this child and have mercy on her parents and have mercy on all of us. Jesus and Mary, we ask you to bring comfort to those who know no comfort and healing to those whose hearts is broken. Amen.”

  The crowd murmured, “Amen,” and Cooper silently but swiftly began to shovel dirt into the grave, quickly filling it up.

  Peggy’s sobbing had begun to subside, but when Cooper finished piling the dirt and patting down the mound on top of the grave, she flung herself out of Keith’s arms. She fell to the ground and, hugging the soil, cried out.

  “Ainnoanjgwendelivmenomobaby.” She repeated the word three times.

  Rossy looked sadly at Keith. He was the only one who seemed to understand her. Keith simply stood over Peggy, running his hand through her hair. “Yes,” he said slowly, more to himself than to anyone else.

  And then, to Rossy’s astonishment, Keith said more words at one time than Rossy had heard him say since they were children. “Ain’t no angel goin’ deliver us any more babies.”

  Chapter 44

  They had drunk all the liquor in Forrest’s saddlebags and were ready for more. The Knights were in the Parteblanc bar, laughing and carousing louder than ever. All of them. All of them, that is, except Jimmy Joe, who had ridden out of Little Jerusalem in a huff, not speaking to anyone.

  They had gotten so loud that Raifer had been awakened and summoned to make sure things did not get any more out of control than they already were.

  Raifer entered the bar and stood to one side, observing, sizing up the crowd and the situation. The men did not notice him or pay the slightest bit of attention. Their focus was on Bucky.

  Bucky, his back to the door, was on the top of a table, a bottle in his hand, entertaining a crowd that let out earsplitting whoops at his antics.

  “So, I takes this here torch, a torch we done made out of Nimrod’s own mattress stuck on his own hoe, and I tried to light the wattle in the walls. But you know what, them darkies’ walls was soaked from the rain, and the moss in the wattle wouldn’t light, and the wood wouldn’t catch. But did that stop me? No.”

  The Knights egged him on to tell them. “What did you do? How did you do it?” They wanted to hear what he had to say, although all of them had been there with him.

  “So, I directed Forrest to take his knife and score the wood in the walls.”

  The men pointed at Forrest, asleep in his chair, liquored up and limp. They laughed loudly. They would tell Forrest tomorrow how Bucky had claimed he had “directed” Forrest to do anything.

  “But Forrest’s ol’ knife was so dull, it weren’t worth as much as a brevet horse to an officer leading a cavalry charge.”

  The Knights chuckled at the idea of the cavalry being led into battle by someone on a mule.

  Bucky continued on. They were being entertained by him, and he wasn’t going to let them down. They would all applaud when he was done. He just knew it.

  “So,” Bucky said, pausing for effect, “I done pulled it out.”

  “You go ahead and pull it out,” Tee Ray yelled back, “pull it out now.”

  The others whooped, to Bucky’s satisfaction, “Pull it out. Pull it out.”

  With a dramatic flourish Bucky reached inside his filthy shirt and looked around, squinting at the Knights with what he thought was a menacing look. Then he slowly withdrew his arm. Grasped in his dirty hand was a wicked-looking blade.

  “Yep. I pulled out this here Jew knife, like the one that done killed the Colonel Judge, and it cut through them log walls like they was made of nothin’ more ’stantial than grits. And I flayed that wood and done spent a whole half a bottle of the Colonel Judge’s fine rum to make sure it would light good, and before you knew it, that whole darky’s cabin was blazin’ away.”

  The Knights didn’t applaud.

  Instead, individuals hooted out, “Let me see that.”

  And “Pass ’round that Jew knife.”

  And “Bucky, let us see how sharp it is.”

  And “Are you sure you didn’t cut somethin’ off while keeping that knife in your pants?”

  The loud taunting had stirred Forrest. Without lifting his head or taking his beard off his chest, he merely opened one eye and grunted in a deep voice that cut through the commotion, “Cuttin’ somethin’ off in Bucky’s pants? Hell, who would know the difference anyway.”

  Now they applauded. Now the men laughed. Tee Ray’s laugh was loudest of all.

  Bucky was angered. How dare they make fun of him! He bent his knees. Crouching in a manner he imagined Indians might have used stalking their prey and grasping the knife more tightly than ever, he sliced the air in what he thought was a vicious manner. “You want to see this?” He slowly turned around, glaring at the Knights from atop the table. “See this here blade? I’ll stick it deep in the ribs of the next one of you who…”

  Forrest, who had roused himself and moved faster than one would have thought possible for a big man, much less one who had drunk as much as he had, snuck up on Bucky. Grabbing him from behind, he held Bucky in his big grasp. Bucky’s feet desperately searched for the tabletop as he was hoisted high in the air. Forrest, holding Bucky over his head as easily as if he had been a baby, spun around and around, faste
r and faster.

  Bucky began to get queasy. The ceiling was spinning above him, and his stomach was churning. He could feel the bile flowing. A bitter, thick liquid gurgled up his gullet.

  “He’s gonna blow, Forrest,” warned Tee Ray, reaching up and grabbing the knife from the deputy’s hand as the color began to drain from Bucky’s face.

  Forrest twirled his way to the open door and tossed Bucky onto the rough-planked porch. Bucky hit hard on his back. He groaned and rolled over. Yellow vomit with a bilious smell spewed over his shirt and the porch and dripped through the slats toward the ground below.

  Inside, Tee Ray was showing off the knife. He leaped behind the bar, and the bartender rapidly moved away. Tee Ray carved a large x on the surface of the bar, showing the others how deep the gash was and how easily it was made. He borrowed the hat of one of the Knights and sliced a narrow piece off the brim, leaving a cut so clean and straight it looked as if the hatmaker had designed it that way.

  Tee Ray was about to demonstrate another wonder of the knife when Raifer walked up and joined him behind the bar that separated the two of them from the rest of the group. In a quiet but firm voice Raifer said, “I’ll take that Tee Ray.”

  Tee Ray glared with fury. No one interrupted him. No one challenged him in front of the Knights. The others grew silent. The room became still.

  Tee Ray, his jaw set, his teeth grinding in anger, took the knife and flicked a button on Raifer’s shirt. It was just the slightest touch, but the excellent blade cut the button off, and it fell to the floor. Raifer didn’t flinch. With a calm, determined manner he simply repeated, “I’ll take that.”

  Tee Ray thought a moment, starting to direct the knife to another button. The Knights were all there. They outnumbered Raifer. They could take him.

  Then Tee Ray glanced down at Raifer’s hand. Raifer, without any show at all, had pulled out his long Colt pistol and had his finger on the trigger. The others couldn’t see this because the bar blocked their view, but Tee Ray could. The barrel was pointed at Tee Ray’s groin.