by Mark Myers
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Soon after, the owner of a thriving company decided to relocate his factory from Delaware to the south to take advantage of the cheap labor and favorable land prices. After surveying the options, he decided on a plot of land just outside the city limits of Portsong. It took nearly six months to build, but the Swanson Glass factory brought a new spirit of industrialism to the town. The opening of the factory, combined with the recent logging boom along the Atlantic Coastal Plain, made plenty of jobs available for the people of this growing city.
Of course, with more jobs came more people. It follows that with more people came more personalities. And with this increase in personalities there came conflict. No conflict was worse than the one that came to be known as the Great Sheep Donnybrook of 1908. Portsong was no stranger to farming. Although by the turn of the century it had become quite a metropolis – complete with a newspaper, a sixteen room hotel and two diners – it maintained its rural roots. But the city held to the traditional livestock – horses, cows, pigs and poultry. Its citizens were completely unprepared for a bleating newcomer.
Irvine MacTavish moved to Portsong from the high country of North Carolina and brought his flock of sheep south with him. He was a bit of a sour man who had a habit of chewing leaves and drinking a foul-smelling homemade tonic. Legend held that he had always been mean, but his temper got worse after he was kicked off his land up north. His fits of rage brought him into many squabbles with the local sheriff, and he spent several days detained in the office cell. The trouble started because MacTavish was not a man who built fences. He didn’t believe in them. He built stone pens where he kept his sheep at night; but he allowed them to roam during the daylight. His neighbors’ distaste for him grew with every woolen stray that chewed up gardens and grass not belonging to MacTavish – and it happened often.
One hot summer night in 1908, Peter Fredrickson burst into Sheriff Tad Lister’s office with his face bruised and bloodied.
“What in the world happened to you, Peter?” asked the sheriff in shock.
“You gotta stop him, sheriff,” cried the man. “It’s MacTavish. He’s off his nut this time!”
The sheriff kicked his heals off his desk and rose to his feet. He knew that his relaxing evening was over. “Tell me what happened,” he said.
“Well, you know he lets those smelly sheep wander all over eatin’ everythin’ in sight,” Fredrickson began. “Well…I got sick of ‘em pulling up my potato field… so I put up a fence ‘tween me and him. I figured if he wasn’t gonna tend to ‘em, I would, and I got every right to put a fence on my own property!”
“You sure do,” agreed the sheriff.
“Well, he came an’ got furious about the fence this morning when he saw it. He started yelling about how his sheep needed the room. So’s I went out and yelled right back! ‘If you want more room, you buy more room!’ I told him. ‘You keep your sheep out of my potatoes!’ I hollered at him,” the man continued. “And right there with me watching him, he kicked down the top rail of my fence! Can you believe that?”
The lawman rolled his eyes and replied, “Yes, I’ll believe anything you tell me.”
“Well with the rail gone, those sheep started pouring in like water from a pump and spread out eatin’ everythin’ in sight! Just like I told you…everythin’!”
“Okay, Peter,” said the sheriff. “I get it, they ate everything. But how did you get bloodied?”
“Well, I was gettin’ there,” answered the agitated farmer. “As quick as they’d come, I tried to push them back over while that man just stood and laughed. The problem came when I picked one up and dropped it over the good part of the fence. MacTavish turned so red he was near purple and he came at me. I fought him off and we was both on the ground. He was so mad he started diggin’ in the ground with his bare hands like an animal. Once his fingers hit one of my potatoes, he smiled all crazy-like and threw it at me. Then he dug out another…and another ‘til he was hitting me with ‘em so fast I couldn’t get out of the way,” the farmer paused to collect himself. He breathed in and out slowly to calm down, then said, “A man shouldn’t get beat with his own produce, sheriff. You gotta do somethin’!”
The sheriff put a comforting hand on the farmers shoulder. “Your right, I’ll bring him in and let him cool down here for a while. You gonna be okay? Should we get Doc Barnes to take a look at ya?”
“Nah, I’ll be fine,” replied Fredrickson as he put his hat back on his head. “I don’t want people to see me like this.”
Sheriff Lister got his rifle and left to retrieve the suspect. MacTavish sat waiting for him and came without incident. In fact, he came a little too willingly for Lister’s taste and seemed a bit too content in the little cell. The sheriff worried about the devilish grin under his hat as he folded his hands behind his head and bedded down for the night. But he had his man and could wait until morning to sort out his peculiarities. He locked the cell and left his office with peace restored…for the moment.
As darkness blanketed the quiet little community, something else covered its streets as well – sheep. Hundreds of sheep left out of their nightly pen came wandering into town; and they were hungry. Reverend Josiah Crane later called it the eleventh plague on Egypt. The sheep ate every blooming flower and shrub down to the root. They knocked over pots and trampled through gardens that had previously been lovely. Their bleating awakened the ladies of the city, whose maternal instincts thought they were lost babes crying out. The women who had husbands woke them up to investigate and those who did not took to the streets themselves. All peace was shattered as his flock devastated the foliage of the entire town while their owner lay laughing in his cell.
Men in nightshirts and caps tried to corral them. But there were simply too many fuzzy animals and too few hands. It looked like they were trying to dam up a rushing, white river that continually worked its way around their efforts. The sheep bleated merrily as if laughing at the would-be wranglers and continued on their path of destruction. In time, the entire town was out of bed in various states of wakefulness. Children thought it was great fun to be outside in the dark watching the commotion, and most never returned to sleep.
Sheriff Lister roared onto the scene and quickly found himself unable to control it. As he watched sheep run left, right and center down Main Street, the unexpected submission of their owner came to his weary mind. It all came together for him, and he dodged a ewe and its lamb who had taken up residence in the doorway to his office.
“MacTavish!” he yelled upon entering. “You’ve got to do something!”
With a fake yawn and deliberate slowness, the prisoner stretched and replied, “Whatever are you talkin’ about, Sheriff?”
“Your sheep are everywhere!” answered the Sheriff in a huff. “They’ve woken everyone up and are destroying the town.”
“Funny… they’ve never done that before,” observed the cool prisoner without opening his eyes. “Are you sure they are mine?”
“Am I sure? There’s nary another sheep farm in this county!” yelled the sheriff until he realized he was being played with. He composed himself as best he could before continuing. “What do you want, MacTavish?”
The prisoner turned and sat up, facing the sheriff through the bars. “I want that infernal fence taken down!” he demanded in a stern tone. “And I want a promise there won’t be another.”
“But how will you keep them out of Fredrickson’s potatoes next door?” asked the sheriff.
“Bahhh! They never touched his precious potatoes,” he said. “Potatoes grow under the ground, no? My sheep don’t root. They ain’t pigs. They only eat what’s on top. I wouldn’t let ‘em eat another man’s crop, Sheriff.”
A stampede of hooves outside the door and a lady’s scream reminded the sheriff that the mayhem in the streets of his calm city was still in progress. He had little time to ponder the terms of the deal before he agreed. “D
one!” he said and opened the cell door for MacTavish.
The farmer gathered his things, put his floppy hat on his head and left the office with a wink. Once he entered the streets, he whistled and called out into the night, “Heehee-Ho! Heehee-Ho!”
Without looking to see if he was being followed, he sauntered down Main Street in a carefree manner that nearly set Sheriff Lister off on a rampage. He was just about to return the man to his cell when the first sheep ran to get in line behind the shepherd. Within ten seconds another came running to join the procession.
“Heehee-Ho! Heehee-Ho!” said MacTavish. This time his voice was barely audible above the sound of scampering hooves. His line of sheep got longer and longer until it packed the entire street. He never looked up and never looked back to see if he was being obeyed. He just walked on. He walked past the gawking citizens who pressed up against the buildings as the flock widened. In a matter of moments there was not a sheep left in the downtown area. Only the wreckage of the night would remind people that they had been there.
As they marched past the Goose Creek Country Church, MacTavish tipped his hat to the Reverend Crane, who was seated on the steps out front, watching in fascination.
“The sheep know the shepherd’s voice, don’t they, sir?” called the young reverend, who was amused at the application of a Biblical truth he’d read for years. He would go on to use this illustration far too many times for the taste of his congregation.
“Aye, sir” replied MacTavish. “Aye! They do.”
The exhausted people of Portsong slowly retreated to their homes in awe of his control over the animals. The next day, Peter Fredrickson reluctantly removed his fence and life returned to normal in Portsong.
ώ
Over the next decade, the city fell into a rut. Like a small child looking up at a much taller brother, it yearned to grow. Its citizenry wanted to reach the size of more prominent hamlets along the Georgia landscape. Places such as Savannah, Macon, Columbus and Athens all seemed to burst at the seams and enlarge their borders, while Portsong stayed exactly the same size. A mayor was elected on the platform of increasing the city’s stature in the state through transportation. He lobbied state officials for a trolley system, but his letters were never returned. He courted the railway companies for their own stop along the nearby tracks, but that too was denied. His legacy was doomed to be tarnished until he made a deal to tap into the wonder of electric power sold to them by the Savannah Power Company. The entire town came out to see their fair streets lit up at night for the first time.
At the close of 1918, they welcomed their returning boys home from another war and felt ready for a population boom that was sure to come. Alas, it did not. While there was relief over their safe arrival, it didn’t increase their census by a single name. The city was doomed to the status quo.
The 1920s may have been roaring elsewhere, but in Portsong they were celebrated with something more resembling a sigh. The population waivered and flinched, but never grew. Despite the best efforts of the newly elected mayor, The Honorable Earnest Shambley, it was exceedingly rare for a soul to move into town. Fortunately, no one moved out of town either. Everyone stayed put in a sort of contented heap. If ten babies were born at the little hospital, a dozen elderly citizens changed their eternal citizenship, and the sum total went down by two. The count of people never reached over two thousand people. In the early part of the decade, it hovered at 1967 until a stranger came and increased it by exactly one.
This newest citizen was described as an odd fellow who spoke with a very refined accent that often confused those he met during his daily walks. A gentleman in all respects, he wore a mustache curled at the ends, whiskers on his cheeks, and his head was never without a proper covering. He also fancied a long red outer coat to keep the chill away. His name was Colonel Clarence J. Birdwhistle, retired from the British Army. After he left the service, he found quiet life in England quite boring and decided one more adventure would suit his taste.
With thoughts of a more exciting life in mind, a whim struck him on his weekly trip to the library. He stood in the rotunda looking at the massive globe, lost in wonder. He had long known it was forbidden to touch the globe, but it intrigued his mischievous nature. The Colonel looked both ways to make sure no one was watching and gave it a mighty heave. It was in good working order and rotated perfectly. As soon as it began turning, a starched-looking woman appeared from nowhere as if he’d rubbed a genie’s lamp. With no regard for his age, she scolded the old man. Her lecture seemed to go on forever. He smiled warmly at her, but her stern face didn’t budge. The globe behind was coming to rest and he wanted to get his finger onto it to chart his course, but she was in the way. Finally, she finished wagging her finger at him and set her hands firmly on her hips. With nothing to lose, he did the only thing he could and reached through her arms to set his thumb on its slowing surface. When it finally stopped, his digit rested on the southern part of the United States and he made a mental note of the location. The librarian was indignant when she saw what he had done. He was expelled from the library and told not to return. But the happy colonel knew it didn’t matter because he was leaving anyway.
Within a week he boarded a ship bound for the new world and travelled to Savannah. From there, he took a carriage west until he came to a city approximately where his thumb had landed. There was no Portsong marked on the globe back in England, but it appeared to be a quaint place, and his eyes liked it the moment the horse stopped. His trunk was removed and lodging secured – Colonel Clarence Birdwhistle had a new home. He soon found a yellow bench at the green in the center of town that suited him, and he went there every day between the hours of twelve and two to feed the birds. The old man became contented very quickly with the change in his lifestyle – until one strange day when his life turned upside down.
If you’d like to learn more about Colonel Birdwhistle, you can find the continuation of his story in the book Virgil Creech Takes a Swipe at Redemption
For more about Portsong, visit www.portsong.com
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https://portsong.wordpress.com