Jordan's War - 1861

by B. K. Birch

  Gunner packed as much food on his plate as it would hold.

  “What’s in the pot?” Pa asked and lifted the lid. The smell of chicken broth mixed with one of Grandma’s secret medicinal recipes escaped with the steam. Pa slammed the lid shut.

  “Something that smells that bad couldn’t help anybody feel better . . . could it?” he asked.

  “That’s for Jim,” Willow said.

  “He ain’t never going to eat that!”

  “He said he wasn’t going to take a bath either, but he’s all clean now,” Ma said when she came through the back door holding Jim’s arm.

  His skin didn’t seem as pasty and his lips were no longer crusted with blood. It was obvious Ma had taken the razor to his overgrowth of beard as it no longer rested on his chest. Pa’s clothes were a bit too large for him and the bottoms of the breeches were rolled up at least twice.

  “You get something to eat now,” Ma said. “Jake get on up and let Jim sit down.”

  “But I’m not. . .” Jake protested.

  “Yes you are,” Ma said.

  Jake stood up and took his plate with him. Jim lowered himself in the chair while Ma steadied him. His sickness was obvious, manifested in the feeble way he clasped his fingers together so he could rest his head on his trembling hands.

  Jordan wasn’t hungry anymore. The mere sight of this pitiful man left him confused and sick to his stomach. He got up and scrapped his plate in the slop bucket.

  “Ma, Jordan’s wasting food,” Selie said.

  Jordan gave Selie a mean look. She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “What is this?” Jim asked when Willow sat the bowl of broth in front of him.

  “It’s Grandma’s special broth,” Willow said and put on her best smile, despite the stench rising from the bowl.

  Jim picked up his spoon and slurped just a little of the altered food.

  “Not bad,” Jim said. “Tastes like it’s got some sassafras in it.” He coughed. “I used to love me some sassafras tea.”

  “No one knows what’s in it,” Pa said. “But she better tell someone some of them secrets. She ain’t getting any younger.”

  “Hush Finnian,” Ma said and swatted him with a rag she had draped over her shoulder.

  Jim could only eat half of the bowl before his breathing turned into shallow and labored gasps of air, interrupted by fits of strenuous coughing. Pa picked him up, took him to the front room, and laid him down on the davenport. Willow covered him with a quilt and propped open the front door.

  “Grandma said he needs fresh air,” she whispered.

  “Did she also say he needed a houseful of flies?” Pa said.

  Jordan followed and leaned against the door frame. He didn’t want to watch this anymore but his morbid curiosity got the best of him.

  Willow brushed by him and went into the kitchen. She came back a few minutes later carrying a small cup.

  “Grandma said if he started coughing to give him this,” she said and handed it to Pa.

  “Whiskey?” Pa asked as he put it to his nose before taking a small sip. “Where’d she get this?”

  “That’s what she said,” Willow answered. “And I’m not allowed to tell you where she got it.”

  “But you know.”

  “Yes. I know,” Willow said.

  Pa stooped down and put the cup to Jim’s lips. His eyes lit up as the smell of the sour mash reached his nose. He tried to gulp it, but only managed small sips until it was gone. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  Jordan shuddered when he heard the gurgling in his chest with each breath inward.

  “Where’s the comb?” Pa asked Willow. “I’m heading to the creek.”

  “Ma had it last,” she answered.

  “Where’s your grandma?” Pa asked.

  “Over at the cellar cleaning the ginseng,” Willow said.

  “You go on down and help her,” Pa said. “The boys can clean up.”

  Willow gave Eamon and Jordan a smirk and walked out the back door.

  “That’s women work,” Eamon said, but then quieted down when he saw the look on Pa’s face.

  “After you’re done in here, check on the fire,” Pa said. “Jordan, you run over to Tate’s and let him know Jim’s here. Jake, you go on over to the reverend’s house and let him know that there’s a sick man here needing a prayer.”

  Jordan sprinted off so fast that his hat flew from his head and landed amidst a swirl of dust on the ground. He ran back, picked it up, and headed down the path to Uncle Tate’s place before anyone could stop him to wash anymore dishes.

  He stopped only once and leaned against the fence, watching the spring lambs frolic in the meadow. For the first time today, he had a chance to appreciate home. The hay was ankle high and would be ready for first cutting in another month or so. The fields they’d planted just a few weeks ago were sprouting.

  Henry was walking to the house when Jordan came crashing out of the woods. He’d run the entire three miles and he had a crippling ache in his side.

  “Henry!” Jordan called. “Where’s Uncle Tate?” He leaned on his knees to catch his breath.

  “Over at the barn,” Henry said. “What’s wrong?”

  Jordan didn’t answer him and took off towards the barn.

  “Uncle Tate!” Jordan hollered. “Uncle Tate!”

  “Jordan?” Tate called and walked outside, squinting his eyes to block the sunlight. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Jim,” Jordan said. “We brought him home with us last night. He’s real sick.”

  “Jim?” Tate said. “From up north?”

  Jordan nodded.

  “Where is he?”

  “At the house.”

  “What about his boy?”

  “He’s with us too. Pa wants you to come over and visit.”

  “I can’t do that son,” Tate said. “But Jim and his boy are welcome to stay here. I certainly got the room with Nealy and Isaac both gone.”

  “Isaac’s gone?”

  “Left a few days back,” Tate said. “Eamon should’ve gone with him.”

  “Pa said he ain’t old enough.”

  “You just go on home and tell Finnian we ain’t coming,” Tate said.

  “He’s going to be mad,” Jordan said.

  “I don’t care none,” Uncle Tate said.

  “Bye Uncle Tate,” Jordan called and walked back towards the house, kicking the same rock all the way. He sure wasn’t being very nice. He and Pa had never been mad at each other for this long.

  Henry was sitting on the front porch, whittling a piece of wood. Jordan walked over and plopped down on the steps to watch him. Henry looked at him but didn’t say a word.

  “Jake does that,” Jordan said.

  “Does what?” Henry asked.

  “Makes things out of wood,” Jordan answered. “Some of them are pretty good.”

  “Who says I’m making things out of wood?”

  “If you ain’t making something, then what are you doing?”

  “Pa said Uncle Finnian is a fester on the Confederacy,” Henry said.

  “What’s a fester?”

  “A bloody sore covered with puss.”

  “Why’d he say that?”

  “Cause of what he said the other night. You remember?”

  Jordan vaguely recalled the conversation but didn’t remember it being that big of deal, other than Uncle Tate storming out. Pa and Uncle Tate argued often and Pa said that was how family was sometimes.

  “I saw soldiers,” Jordan said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Henry said, unimpressed. “Home Guard rides by here sometimes. Sergeant Hummel’s real nice.”

  “Yeah, we saw him when we were leaving,” Jordan said.

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Up to Fairmont. To sell the wool and Willow’s syrup.”

  “Why didn’t you take it to Lewisburg? Or Marlins Bottom?”

  “Cause Pa said that paper money ain’t going to be
worth anything in a year or so,” Jordan said. “He got gold coin for it.”

  “That ain’t true,” Henry said. “Pa said the war would be over in a few months and we’d be part of a new and better country.”

  “I saw Federal Soldiers,” Jordan said.

  “Where?”

  “Up past Elkins. I also saw a hip-po-pot-amus. . . and a man who ate fire. Eamon went off with a . . . .” Jordan clamped his hand over his mouth to stop the word from forming.

  “You lie,” Henry said. “All ya’ll are liars. Just like Pa said.”

  “I’m going home,” Jordan said. “And I’m telling Pa what you said.”

  “I don’t care,” Henry said and shrugged.

  Jordan stomped off. He didn’t want to go home, not just yet. Jim’s piercing blue eyes haunted his thoughts. His body was so broken it was like his eyes were the only safe haven for his spirit to dwell. That was, until his body breathed no more and his soul would be set free to roam.

  He stopped and rested on a rock about a mile down the path. The forest was unusually quiet, but then he still had the sounds of the city and the wagon roaring in his head. He put his head in hands and stared at the ground.

  Henry was never really mean to him much, but it made him angry when he said his Pa was a fester. Jordan would never say that about Uncle Tate out loud, even if he did think of it and knew what a ‘fester’ was. There’re just some thoughts best left unspoken.

  “Well, if it ain’t one of them yellow Sinclairs,” a sneering voice said.

  Jordan jumped up. Luke Vander had ridden his horse within ten feet of his rock and he didn’t even hear him.

  “It’s the little mouthy one,” Luke said and smiled, showing his brown-gray teeth.

  Jordan took off running as fast as he could. He could hear the horse’s hooves pounding the ground behind him. He searched for a hiding place, but couldn’t find one. There were no low hanging branches for cover or thickets of bushes to get lost in.

  He was trapped.

  Chapter 12

  Jordan was quickly losing ground as he sprinted through the lush fern growth of the forest floor like a deer in flight, while trying to avoid the protruding rocks and twisting an ankle. He could hear the thundering hooves of Luke Vander’s horse crashing through the woods behind him, snapping weeds and small trees in its path. Jordan was too terrified to turn around to see just how close he was. He could hear the animal snort and groan with each jab of Luke’s heels into its belly.

  Jordan ducked under a brush thicket and made his way through the branches to the other side. Thorns tore at his clothes and scratched his face. He raced out into the sunlight, but the ground had ended. He was airborne and tumbled down a dirt bank into the mud. The fall knocked the wind out of him as he landed on his face and stomach. He was dazed for a moment, but then staggered to his feet and lunged behind a large rock sitting at the edge of the creek bed.

  Jordan held his breath and listened as the horse clopped along the bank above him.

  “I know you’re down there,” Luke hissed. “Not only are you a coward, but you’re stupid too.”

  Jordan crouched as close as he could to the base of the damp, mossy rock. He could feel beetles and other critters crawling up his arm, but was too afraid to move.

  “I’ll get you out of there,” Luke said. “Just like flushing a bear out of a tree.”

  Jordan heard Luke cock his revolver. A shot rang out over the tranquil forest and dirt flew into the air right next to Jordan, as the bullet hit the ground, sending pieces of it into his eyes.

  He knew Luke would have to reload. Should he run off and risk getting chased again or stay put? He listened but didn’t hear anything else. He peered around the side of the rock, right into the eyes of the devil and his beastly steed.

  “I knew you’d come out,” Luke said and pointed his revolver right at Jordan. Jordan ducked back behind the rock, gasping for air. Another gunshot ricocheted off the boulder, splintering the massive granite.

  Jordan heard splashing and turned to see if someone was coming to help him. Otter and Rusty dashed up the creek bed.

  “Well, if I can’t get a shot at you, then I’ll have to shoot your mangy dog,” Luke hissed. Jordan heard another shot and closed his eyes. He heard the splash and a dog yelp. He couldn’t tell if it was Otter or Rusty. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “Private Vander!” a voice called out. “What are you shooting at?”

  “Just a diseased coon,” Luke said. “They usually don’t come out in the daytime, but I saw one strolling along just now. That’s how you tell it’s diseased.”

  “You will not waste precious bullets on some rabid animal,” the voice said. “Get over here.”

  “I’ll be seeing you, little yellow Sinclair,” Luke in a low, mocking voice.

  Jordan didn’t move. Otter sat down beside him and licked his face. Rusty sat on the other side of him, patting him with his tail and drooling on his trousers. He patted Otter on the head. Thank God they’re not hurt.

  “We ought to go this way,” Jordan heard Luke say. “A few miles down this path is the prettiest willow you’d ever want to see.”

  Jordan peered around the rock and saw two other soldiers. One of them was Sergeant Hummel.

  “What?” Sergeant Hummel.

  “A willow,” Luke said. “You want to come and see?”

  “You want us to go look at some tree?” the other soldier said. “Vander, have you lost your damn mind?”

  “I didn’t say nothing about no tree,” Luke said.

  The voices trailed off until Jordan could no longer hear them. He rested his head on the cool surface of the rock and let his heart slow down. He listened but he didn’t hear anything else. The birds started chirping again.

  “There he is!” Eamon said. “Pa I found him!”

  Jordan stood up as Eamon slid down the bank.

  “What happened?” Eamon asked.

  “Luke!” Jordan sniveled. “He was shooting at me.”

  Pa and Jake came splashing up the side of the creek.

  “You all right?” Pa asked.

  “I think so,” Jordan said and then fell back down, as his weak legs failed to hold him.

  “He said Luke was shooting at him,” Eamon said.

  “Pa, Luke was talking about Willow,” Jordan gasped but didn’t get another word out, as they all turned to the crashing coming from the bank above.

  “Who’s down there?” he heard a voice call.

  “Uncle Tate?” Eamon called. “It’s us.”

  “What’s all that shooting about?” he asked.

  “Luke tried to shoot Jordan,” Eamon said.

  “What!” Tate said. “Oh, now I don’t believe that.”

  “It’s true, Uncle Tate,” Jordan cried and found his strength to stand up. “He chased me on his horse and then he tried to shoot me.”

  Tate slid down the bank towards Pa, Eamon, and Finnian. Henry followed behind him. Rusty ran over to greet him. Tate shooed him away.

  “Well, you don’t look hurt,” Tate growled.

  “Something’s got to be done about this,” Pa said. “They ain’t got no right running around the mountain shooting at innocent folks.”

  “I can’t condone it either,” Tate said. “But it was only a matter of time before something like this happened.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Eamon asked.

  “I mean all of you,” Tate said. His eyes narrowed. “You should be off fighting with all them other boys.”

  “Isaac left last week,” Jordan interrupted.

  “You,” Tate said and pointed his finger at Pa. “You take your wool all the way north, knowing damn good and well, it would end up in the mills up there. Everyone knows what you did and folks ain’t liking it.”

  “It was the smart thing to do,” Pa said as he met Tate’s stare. “You’ll realize it soon enough. I don’t care if folks like it or not.”

  “What I realize is that you’
re taking sides against the Confederacy. You’re against everyone around you and a man’s freedom.”

  Henry stood behind his pa.

  “Maybe. A man has a right to decide those things for himself now don’t he?” Pa said, and grinned as if to taunt his brother.

  “Not now,” Tate scoffed. “There’s a war going on. Mark my word, Finnian, this is only the beginning. Come on Henry, let’s go.”

  “I guess this means you ain’t coming over for supper tonight?” Finnian asked.

  “You’re damn right,” Tate said. “When this is over, you’ll be lucky to still own your place. No one’s going to take kindly to having you as their neighbor. They’ll probably string you up and burn your place to the ground.”

  Tate turned his back and he and Henry climbed back up the riverbank and disappeared into the pine trees.

  Pa was silent for a moment. Neither Jordan nor Eamon said a word, as to not interrupt his thoughts.

  “Well, he is a stubborn old fool,” Pa said. “Always was the first one to jump in head first into the shallow end of the creek. Let’s go home boys.”

  “He called you a fester on the Confederacy,” Jordan said.

  “He did, did he?”

  “That’s what Henry said.”

  “We’ll see who the fester is when this is all over,” Pa laughed.

  Jordan brushed the clumps of mud off his shirt and knees and followed Pa back up the bank to the path home.

  Jordan walked back to the house alone while Pa, Eamon and Jake stopped at the barn to do the feeding.

  “Jordan you’d better change,” Willow said as she swept the porch. “Reverend Summey and Emanuel are coming to dinner.”

  “What for?” Jordan asked and looked down at the brown mass of dirt and leaves embedded in his shirt. He could feel the mud clinging to his hair and it felt like he had some lodged in his ear.

  “To pray for Jim,” she said and sauntered off in her Sunday best, twirling the broom.

  “It ain’t Sunday,” he called after her, but she ignored him.

  Willow had fancied the Reverend’s son, Emanuel, for months now. What she saw in that gangly boy, Jordan would never know and Ma said one good puff of wind would blow him away.

  He and Eamon would laugh as Willow sat all doe-eyed while Emanuel read from one of his books. She always called him by his full name, Emanuel, not Manny like everyone else did, and she always used that helpless girl voice when she talked to him. Willow was a lot of things, but helpless wasn’t one of them.